You can almost see it falling, that nearly immaterial impersonation of matter
Light sees it, catches it
Says 'I know a secret'
It's quiet
Its plan is to slip down, after dark,
when no one can see it,
one can almost never hear it
one can feel it, if you remove your hat
turn your face up to the sky, the deep blue night
and taste the winter
the softer air
the ambient light
the subtly melting crystals
on your tongue
Sky Writing
The sky is yellow, lemonish
pink, somewhat insinuated by the lemon ice of snow-set tones
a softer blush
an inscrutable silence
that impinges on the the skeletal branches
like jewels in your hair
Ravine
Looking down from the path, the water slips beneath our feet, intent on its own progress,
a dance of elements, throwing off radiance, a harvest of winter sunlight, incidental, as if a mere byproduct,
an accident of water, hurrying to itself
Photographic Evidence
Old sheds in Iowa? Another winter day on the prairie?
The fence worn, swaying to the march of the seasons
Branches catch the powder of the quiet fall,
Another day of timeless snow: the element that teases the senses, erases the centuries, scrambles what we think we know
Tinting
Trees yellowing their hair
Where does the color come from? what time of day or night pastels the sky with the flat edge of some tool unavailable to human fingers
Tricks of the season
Threads of time, woven
in a soft fall
one of those hundreds of Eskimo names whose speech
we have yet to learn
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