Just before the downpour the sky brightens

in my body I carry the long winter, so that when

the branches bow with the weight of rain my bones are the seams

in highways, swelling with the frost, making faults.

Amidst the deep thunder of summer, I can hear the snow fall, a sound resounding

as absence: a somehow, simple, quieting--the whole city,

the rats moving in the rafters, wind working at the early buds--becomes

the sound of a world with air around it, the same as the feel in the mouth of old oil;

is it that my ears were shrouded in wool that

bodies moving about the frozen world, briefly losing the earth

and skidding on ice, unbound as angels, their mouths opening as they lifted

made no sound but were full of grace.

This moment: a sourceless light floods the house, swallowing

somehow even the shadows beneath the furniture, and it is the snow

I remember, the weather, the authoring wonder of white.

06/06/2007

Posted on 06/06/2007
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