Reading the Season

Jan 24 2012

When you’ve lived in a place

long enough

you know what wind,

what weather it brings.

You read the seasons

like a dog-eared book,

revisiting

a memorable part,

picking-up at the start

of another year.

You are tuned to the light

to birds in flight

the fat, and the lean.

You are rooted in land

which you feel bone deep,

as the planet turns

and the heavens sweep.

It was perfect, today.

High pressure

scoured the place clean  —

blinding snow,

wind-whipped

into frozen undulations,

blue sky

soaring high as space.

The wind has died

and only my footsteps

break the silence.

My passage, inscribed

in the squeaky crunch

of snow,

the fine paper crust.

I shield my eyes

for signs.

I do not feel the cold.

I will book-mark this day.

Pen a note

in the empty margin,

leave my mark

on an untouched page.