The remnants of this weather on the ground;
Chemicals on a slick, snow plow.
First alarms sounded of a white snowy morning. Heavy and wet, flakes covered the ground as those in the river were covered by water, never to come home again. Fast late last year turns to right now present; and years, and sorted experience before. It came out like a pocket knife to test, to screw, to cut once, deep. It was the kind sharpened to a fine edge. Dead bones rested below, and in the back of one’s mind. People came and went; flesh loosened, darkened, slackened, and dusted with age back to dirt. Blades of toy windmills caught the grey air, while leaves fell zigzag to the browned December ground. We just ran by. Air brakes of a semi sounded off far on a distant highway, for those who traveled about the countryside, between the bluffs, near the riverbed; all to hear, all to unite in this one thought, some time, some date, in one mind. Ubiquitous green trees once loomed watching over this tiny town, Apple Capital, providing breath, under thick blankets of sepia cloud; brisk and cool in winter light, it moved through valleys touching rock, touching sand, touching faces, creating must and dew, on bark, and Fall’s fodder, on all who caught a glimpse. Each little speck floated soundless, seeming endlessly to the darkened pavement, as eyes took to more than they could unpack.
Foggy covetous invalids,
leant on glistening balustrades,
with gossamer hangings; bent
blades of grass, enacting a fool’s
calypso in cover of darkness, at
that exact moment, for all gleaming
eyes to witness, as winds stirred
through an open door below.
While The Stone Arch Bridge looms
Over a foggy flowing
As flotsam floats-
Traverse these tossing translucent currents.
Glinting nigh business lights of St. Anthony Main.
Automobile and bus engines sustain,
Carrying the once open-air pedestrian-
In thin glow street lamps,
Bumping between buildings tall, and stoplights bright.
With snow gathered underfoot below.
What play to our mirrors
Coming to for our peers
Gains a perfect little show
Moved to smiles and tears.
We cannot drop this act
Because of love- the fact:
That we are truly ourselves
Only inside of our house.
Follow steam as it floats
On our daily commute,
Orange eastern horizon,
Thoughts of warm soup.
Eyes locked on the bus
Swaying back and forth,
Come along on this ride,
Again, feeling so north.
Travelling tainted ways,
Thinking of pins and pine,
Bundled people walking-
Beyond the glass, outside.
Seasons to be discussed,
Roads to pass as we go,
Men in boots and gloves
Shovel hard at the snow.
Now these sitters travel
Careful as what to pack,
Each to make way here,
In hopes to make it back.
What more could we ask?
What more could we ask?
It is no Sunday, November 09, 2014.
Or any day…
It is a surreal institute
Of darkness in oppressing clouds
Looking down, waiting, coming-
Turning breath to steam, to puffs, muting sound,
To daggers in the chest-
These real proper effects!
It is not any day,
Or any Sunday, November 09, 2014.
But the weather,
But the pressure.
Felt in measures.
Drift wood lie on the ground bent
Fixed there in midday sun ease,
Exhausted on mind’s fickle intent
Hard resting, come at fast release
Visible footprints mark this stroll,
Paths we meet coming toward,
Gambling dice we take a roll
Wagering what value we can afford
Making way we wander ’round
Pleasantly procured- what sight we sought;
Relishing that which we have found,
Making play with thoughts wrought
Likewise we stand the surrounding wilderness we stare,
Taking inside us breath, becoming alive through fresh air.