It’s 10 degrees on the edge of the Great Plains. And light snow spirals lazily downward until spun about by a northwesterly breeze. My landscape is bright, brown and black.
Years ago, I was in lust as no man has ever been before or since. Circumstances made it an impossible, and short-lived, union. Yet the memories still glisten. She was my muse for a time.
Here’s one wintery result:
Silence in Snowfall
As he slowly walks to join her,
the snow rustles like salt
in a shaker beneath his boots.
The city’s clamor is muted.
What fills his ear are small
sounds – the creak of black
branches under white weight,
the minor-key whisper of air
moving in the eves. Snowflakes
swirl and tumble in the glow
of the street light. The sidewalk
has lost its symmetry and devolves
into an ancient, wandering footpath.
Wind-carved dunes and hummocks
cast stark shadows and stretch
to the blurred horizon. Snowfall leans
in doorways and lounges on rooftops.
Streets blend with blanketed lawns
to conjure an intimate stillness
like the pause between
their kisses.
Leaning Into the Season
Flannel is the Language of Fall
Nicely done