- Books, Literature, and Writing
Slow motion explosion, sunrise, seeping
Red into the deep blue of pre-dawn sky.
Walk to the end of the platform, seeking
Snow: there it is, and there, deeply, it lies.
I strap on snowshoes, wade into powdered
Sugar ankle deep, its surface inscribed
By whim of the changing wind, a circle
Partial, by a dry and wind-blown weed described.
Light spreads wide, across the sky expands
Headlong into the swift oncoming day.
Tiny tracks reveal small adventures, chanced
In the night some risky rodent forays.
Little critters betting against the owl -
A lack of visible blood shows they won
Their bets this time, although when next howl
The coyotes, they might make a snack for one.
So I muse, my fare no better as I
Leave my tracks in the snow. Perhaps something
Sees my tiny wandering, gapes at my
Cutting softly the blank surface of being
And as I go, considers my ending.
On the other hand
Perhaps nobody imagines me
Except when reading my poetry.