There is the cracking– thin, brittle chafings of bones begging to splinter, to silver holy music through darkened hollows, and there is us, Love’s loneliest brood, spelled out like vagrant relics, like glistening runes, upon God’s most silent scattered linen. … Continue reading
Ribbed, solitary leaf, cradled in frozen canvas, stray comma to the rivered language of glacial moon, that is where I find her, my love, spreading pure as the music of first snow.
Like ice cream, this dream of life, wintering its soul– How lovely the melt! (Artwork by Hiroshige)
In winter’s maw, snow, flutters of feathery pecks– kisses, melt to rash. (Artwork by Hiroshige)
Long ago, slowly crossing the bridge in winter– Footprints in fresh snow. (Artwork by Hiroshige)
Thick blossoms of snow caking the comb-teeth of pines– To rivet, chastely, sublime.
Quite simply, the curlicue flake of snow kisses the child’s lashes, and winter’s slow hidden pink marvels in its own tender praises.
On the day the Trickster died in vain Winter set in to consecrate its crucifix and initiate the changing of seasons.
A man in a bulky white parka is running across a snowy landscape. The hood pulled over his head is lined with seal-gray fur. He is wearing plastic goggles that are caked in frost. … Continue reading
She, full of secret pines, shadow-limbed beneath a pale disc of winter sun, waltzing solo in snow-caked hills, blood-red quill tucked behind her left ear, just in case the urge to climb spires and trace spheres via a fierce run … Continue reading
