Poem I: Snowfall in the Pueblo

I was there

At 8:30 AM, when the streetlights went dark

And their ambrosia flicker fled the byways

At 8:30 AM, when the village may have been empty of souls

For its silence-

Just walls of stucco and wood frame

In intent conversation with the echo and splash

Of my footfalls.

Snow was falling, in that determined way

That snow falls when the season has robbed it of rightful storms

And the vineyards sat in stoic wedding gowns

The texture of turned up rocks and frozen soil

In wait for their green-fitted bridegroom

A pale bride under the vaulted and steel-eyed sky

Whose train and veil extend beyond the hilltop,

I'm sure,

Perhaps all the way to the sea

To St. Petersburg

To wind-painted oceans of sand.

Silence at 8:30 AM

When I walked the mud-slick back-path

The water-slick backstreets

The dangerous glisten of murderous, winking cobblestones

Smoothed down to pavement by such winters

And the fountain muttering incantations between drops

Charms against ice and shattered pipes

A dog barked

A formless dog of dawn

Looking out from behind warm panes of glass

Or stealing beneath the bridge, a picture of neglect- freedom as well

Which is not always such a comfortable path

When winter comes.

I will never know if he barked at me-

To get my foolish feet indoors, my shoulders beneath blankets

To walk some more, a harsh and throaty bell of affirmation

Or maybe just at the snowfall

To break the strange and desperate quiet of it.

I finally turned for home

And thought a heatless world better than a heatless apartment

Picked a flower

Conducted the low-flying birds in their brave northern symphony

And thought

For a moment

Of introducing sound to the furrows and stone of the fields

"Don't you see this is winter's proudest day?"

When the bride blooms

Her earthy skin will be all the warmer.

9 AM

2.5.12