Rhythm and Snow: A Hymn to Life

Preface:

Within my gloves,

cold sweat still clings to my fingertips as

do drippings from peeling overripe oranges;

memory slips into a place forgotten

for years…

My forearms’ skin,

embossed by tiny, superheated soup bones

left over from a thousand

death-sentence suppers,

reminds me that we must court and woo each feast as it presents:

each with a specific atomic and metaphysic weight,

unique like the quantity of snowflakes

held upon each of ten thousand holy, high peaks.

Canticle:

The rhythm of death’s resignation,

in remembrance of the moveable, jocund dust

of countless questing journeys, embraces me within the day’s dance.

In truth, I am the dust on the floor, on tchotchkes, the sacred relics-

dependent on the memory of your reflection in

limpid, rippling water.

Even amongst the redolent odor of

lifeless percentages strewn at your naked feet,

I remember you as indelibly handsome.

A Return:

Remember, though-

among different kinds of snowfall is this:

pausing to spy the black-capped chickadees brave enough to play despite this cold,

my nose is incessantly tickled by tiny flakes

in this blurry month of January

(in which, as a habit, I uncharacteristically wear no shortpants).

That snow is an irksome ally

though it marks some with a blackened spot,

tearing holes in families, nests, and beaver dams.

As some return year after year to push through the dark,

still others thrive.

Epilogue:

In January, the depth of which is abundance in hibernation,

causality is very often impenetrable

so that we can learn patience.

That which so few of us recognize as

Deep Fear,

after all we can do,

is drawn ultimately

toward the same opaque end.