I supposed it was supposed to matter.
In the way the words formed from
The burst sought in a new light. Small
recognitions. The wind that passed
by the door into the garden, astonishing.
The dog’s paws tapping across the
floor, then stopping
in mid-air. Close enough.
Out there, the whiteouts aren’t
going to stop. I should know that now.
It seems I’ve been looking from
30,000 feet for weeks, the warm breath
of the furnace keeping me
from burning into the atmosphere.
How the house speaks to itself.
Do I hibernate and simply dream
all of this?
I must. It’s hard to get things
figured out. The air. The world
that is not transparent.
The ice on the pond sketched with
the rough faces I knew,
like fossils buried alive by ash.
And these Mergansers that glide in,
the first to usurp the silence.
It’s hard to tell what they mean, or
whether they notice as I turn to go back inside,
the world behind me exploding,
falling in with the reluctance of an uprooting
tree, losing its balance maybe in the
dizziness of all its years.