si lence of snow

the for the how

be said ghosts un

too much so fold

There is slow ly.

m(ending)
                                 you
           a      nd
         i(n)
      me

i will give you
permission

to cut me
with your knife

to give me eyes
that will not see

a mouth
that will be silent

i will give you
permission

to take your hands
and scrape away

my seeds
turning my insides

out
i will give you

permission
to cut me

with your knife
againandagainandagain

if you promise
to leave

your light
inside me

i am humbled
by calder’s wires

by the music
miles monk

and mingus made
by the impastos

of van gogh
and van rysselberghe

by rodin’s
le secret

listen

the snow pillows
upon the pines

listen

the river breathes
across summer stones

it is all
one tongue
one language

there is
a reason
for this

boughs bend
with heavy rests

of snow
the singe

of a wing
tips powdery down

white domed stones
city the river

a fox settles
in a fetch

of aspens
when was

the last time
you stretched

your shadow
untied yourself

and waded out
into the mystery

of things?
when did you

last wake
to watch

the first push
of new snow?

autumn aches
of crimson breaks
and gold mistakes
things we must
take up with rakes