Just enough snow to make us believe
that today is a blank page and
on these faint lines, we can write
a short story with a happy ending
or a heroic couplet ending a poem.
The window screen divides the scene
into thousands of pixels, and each one
will need to be filled, black or white,
on or off, here or not here.
A crossword puzzle we can never complete.
A foggy, cold, November morning. Lincoln spoke,
following a 2-hour oratory with two minutes
because he knew “we can not dedicate —
we cannot consecrate — we cannot hallow” ground
covered, uncovered by grass and snow. Remembered.
Fine flakes so intricately small they disappear
against bright gray sky, roads and sidewalks.
In this forest, every surface takes some,
except for the creek, which accepts it
as brethren. I extend my bare hands.
Some who live here have started already
to migrate south, often in breeding pairs.
Snow birds, though they fly from snow.
Mostly white, many older, letting others
fly, feed and care for them.
Photo of Denali by Tim Rains, National Park Service.
And suddenly, summer green becomes autumn orange.
Termination dust, that Alaskan high altitude snow
signals summer’s end. But not here. Now.
No mountaintops. Just lawns and fallen leaves.
No blueberries for bear’s dessert before hibernation.