Winter 1982 • Vol. IV No. 1 Poetry |

Snow

They are making the world all over.This time there is the furred breath of snow.It is silent forever, now, in the new world.Silent and calm and falling whitely.The snow is a breath, like the flutterof a baby's sleep. It turns this way and that,and the little chest of the worldhas no idea what the future might bring.When I am sad like thisthe snow falls only for meand I am the slow falling.I rake the world from rooftop to rooftop.I regret nothing in the sharp crystalsof the lost dawn I might have been.Dropping, dropping,I am breaking up the sky.I become the length and breadth,the unmarked thickness across the windshield.I am the evenhanded emptiness,breathing in like the baby asleep in the new ship of its untried body,breathing out in the shape of a snow-driven man, awake in his sadnessstill sailing the white drifts of his own quiet breaking.

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