The air plays fair with floating flakes
Today, not landing, touching, cold
And sure to make all memories old
As they’re immediate, as now wakes.
The moment of our living life
Which we have called the present, well,
Impermanent as snow that fell,
As dreams of future home or wife.
To touch is just to melt, to slip
Into the water of my tears
And reaching back through eight long years
I catch a stalagmatic drip.
Each thought or act, designed to build
A structure, gently, life’s smooth plan,
Is now dissolved. What I began
The changing of the air has killed,
Wind from across the sea or land
From far-off cities, far-off fields
Each birthing wind, which in turn yields
The emptiness of empty hands.
But all of this is out of place –
To let the snow be first a sore
Is to ignore the beauty – more –
To see the mirror but ignore your face.
My hurt is not the only one,
I am no axis for the world.
Forget the anger that you hurled
And let the tears drip, then be gone.
Unsettled snow and bitter wind –
The metaphors of my unease.
The weathers, like the seasons, tease
And when I pitied me I sinned.