My heart rests in a subtle place
secluded among walls of snow.
Tempted by the ideas of a complacent mind—
you have made me forgetful of other lives
sweet and tepid inside of myself.
This water, the sustenance here is rich
with surrounding life, even in the frigid
cold of winter, secrets live in hidden places
and memories play behind the world’s stark white
expanses of silence.
I am aware of our impending thaw. It always
comes as a welcome surprise,
an awakening, a revisiting—
the world shocked with reaffirmation
when I will stand as me, hot again
in all the magnificent, animalistic beauty
of my words.
I want us to melt. I want to fall upon you.
I want to know life and the Earth in jubilant color.
What comes again with a grain of salt. I will not take it.
What comes upon understanding mountains. It cannot be.
Not now. Open the door and all I see is white. I
whine with the wind and scurry mischief out the door.
I sparkle crystal in words, puddle memories next to you.
You are it, the ones, the only remnants of beauty.
Glance mischief above the pines.
Dance each other, shameless irony,
those seductive flashes of light.
Why is all wisdom lost above our heads?
One day it will happen.
I am melting slowly and so are you.
All moment and once again join the rain.
All of life seems to be buried this morning.
The morning sun has no one to wake.
The pine trees have no choice but to whistle.
Their boughs and needles voracious under the weight of snow.
I have taken time to know you, by way of this night storm,
by way of isolated moments that seem absent,
struggle to live now, they call in whispers from the ground, your mystery.
Do you remember yesterday when we were water
and our words flowed like songs in the rain,
our children carried joy to the rivers.
And, by way of truth, memories become illusions
surely, we were more often ice, a cracked foundation
playing sympathy with this fabrication, a frozen reality, this here life.
Mercy be found in this storm, it seems when our words return to us
they bury us slowly, gentle reminders that drop, one crystal at a time,
heap upon heap until our pines can only whisper, I still live
and tomorrow I will be water and you will be light.
The daydream crackles and turns,
shutters glass, plates,
translucent ideas, they are eerie
through his window panes
rays, truth, memorable demons
tend to occupy empty space, befriend the
morning and play games with the hollow tree.
There is something inside, he lies
and speaks of motion and sporadic instances
of joy, burst and unfettered smiles, in
spoken words, one finds the same,
sometimes a shore and other times
a narrow island by way of a lake
we once knew together.
Why weep at lost opportunities, islands,
isolated beauties, my bird’s eye view,
once, just once, turn back toward the wood,
the crackle of leaves underfoot, a shadow
and a face, meet the hollow tree we all know there is life inside.
We have and we trust
and live in the warmth
of this and every season.
And we are not the bird
the created being of escapist
migration, the seekers of
mischief in humidity and
style. Oh humans, oh builders,
sustainers of dignity and pride,
on this day there is cold
and it is bitter, extreme sensation
awake on the mind questions erupt
from frigid realities
skins and difficult answers that
live and die outside our doors.
The snowbirds frolic
in aged ecstasy
until their dying days.
Dance in flocks
of heightened pleasure.
for what you continue
to leave behind.
Life originated outside our doors
what is at our feet
what must be covered before we fly
streets, their children
the origins of our neighbors,
we are entitled by escape,
the unfortunate circumstances of humanity
that can only awake in the cold.
Fly away if you must
find new homes and warmer places,
in green, the lizards will scatter at your feet.
Warmer death is only for some.