Late snow on branches, cold bright sun,
saying names aloud of those not seen
for too many years, so loudly that
some snow slides off the evergreen needles,
melting into the Earth and into memory.
The photo I use here reminds me of the first two lines of Emily Dickinson’s poem.
There’s a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons —
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes
It’s like being on the sacred mountaintop –
outside my window untouched snow windswept silent
cloudless horizon clear still water mountain reflection
white paper before the pen or brush –
on the postcard rising above my desk.
Mount Kailash (also Kailasa; Kangrinboqê or Gang Rinpoche) is a high peak in Tibet and is considered to be sacred in four religions: Hinduism, Bon, Buddhism, and Jainism.
Here. Now. At the mountain’s highest point,
surrounded by snow like the poem’s white
unwritten page, I stand with my staff,
a sunlight shaft through the highest tree
pierces me with the knowledge of myself.
I have written more elsewhere about axis mundi – the center of the world.
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.
Snow dusting an Appalachian forest, by Don Sniegowski on Flickr
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.
Writing the Day 