This Morning

Stillness.

No wind

Under my heels, the ribbit, ribbit of rubber on snow, pressing me backward in a shift. The arms of trees lilting up and fluid, as aenenomes under water, in perfect synchrony, but frozen still, and laced with snow. Tops of pines unmoving and quiet with a blush of white, sun slow-fingering it’s way up trunks in shadows.

Stillness,

In the bushes the thrush of sparrows

(“you are worth much more than”)

Sparrows in fluttering dance in the spare branches, laced in by snow

Deep drifts, to the knees, fine-er than sugar, than sand, than powder, than cottonwood seeds at bloom

Snow on the iron gates of the cemetery, curling with the curve of a curved bench there by the path, the shadow of the scrolling iron on the smooth palate of snow

And everywhere, stillness. Not a memory of wind.

Mist rising up off the lake, cut by the thin grey reeds

Nothing but footsteps, the squeaking turn of ankles in the acres and acres of white

On the path, a bower of branches, snake-ribboned by snow soft.

Head up and eyes moistening, hat slipping off the head in a daze of glory, and sun.