Friday, March 8, 2013

Through a Small Window

I woke up to a foot of snow
and no old life to pull at me;
the trees are stuffed with cotton now,
the houses packed in foam.

The wind is mad at something
but it finally is not me;
I watch it torture branches
and sip my tea

as bombs of snow go crashing down
dissolving as they fall.
Each snowflake with its own dance
finds its own way to touch ground

as each navigates the space
'tween earth and heaven;
a silent song of sifting snow
takes form from all of them

because that space is empty
and singing is what comes between
the giver and the gift.
I hear the train - a miracle,

there's no need for a me at all
until I hold one snowflake
with my eyes and they all vie at once
for each one to be noticed

and what had seemed so soft and still
becomes a universe
exploding into all its pearls
then necklace coalescing...

It's endless, notwithstanding what the neighbor
blowing driveway snow away
and pausing to talk with the mailwoman
about the weather might say,

for they are no closer to me
than the snow, despite what it seems;
it's all impossible - far away
except inside my dreams.

3 comments:

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Jack said...

This is great. I would say "quaint," but, that's feeble to encompass everything (as it's incredibly powerful and focused). I love this part:

"The wind is mad at something
but it finally is not me;
I watch it torture branches
and sip my tea

as bombs of snow go crashing down
dissolving as they fall."

erin said...

the form has me feeling as though i am inside a snow globe, a more predicatable weather pattern, a meter in the heart, not that the poem itself is predictable. that's not what i mean at all. there is some kind of distance created too, again like the world of a globe, seen, participated in but removed. hence the dream?

xo
erin