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for snow on trees we say
"please stay forever, even amidst the summer sun"
though it will not stay.
not entropy, or crime, or bad luck,
it just goes away, only to come back some other evening.

its the later part that alarms us. if we long to see some spectacle
that parenthetically contains the beauty of a garden in its variety,
will that beauty be known? the realizations of ones who spent all
summer wishing for snow, the renditions of the weather.

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the way its done been.
all this time I'd looked another route
but it was past in front of me--
yonder and nye. never heed my own
words and time, or songs
in time, to see all the glow of possibilities.

like that one year. sweet mountain music.

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for the year, we breathed deeply.
too much of a lot of things, not enough
of very few. all the typewriters
we thought we knew have gone and abandoned thoughts
by very profound individuals.

as for the new year, we question its newness often.

how many rows of carrots should we plant? what
can the state of our union be? and oh, the exhaustion
at the end of the day.

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when its cold out, the room is
empty. books don't hold their weight
the same way.
I look outside to the snow, and
one person, smaller than I, plays.
It is either getting up from my chair,
pushing it back under the table's sturdy legs
and shuffling, in slippers over to see outside;
or, the act of hearing the coffee pot finish
all the way in the kitchen because our rooms
are so soundless; or, the snap of wood
moving in the change of temperature b'neath
my sweaters and blanket that understand who
I am, in this house, in this year.

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affirming the night
there be a shadow and a drink.
some grotesque smile,
I imagine, to do the bidding of
thee