This poem was recently revised, and due to formatting problems has been re-posted out of chronological order.

Tipping Point

Oct 21 2009

Even the dog is listless,

flopped on the porch, her gaze in the distance,

her state of mind

unknowable.

The day is dull as paste

snow filling the space

in-between,

descending, lifting

swirling uncertainly.

It is incessant,

yet the ground just glistens, wet,

the perfect temperature

for snow

as temptress.

How water, congealing

gives up its heat,

the tipping point

of thaw and freeze.

I am on the cusp, as well

floating in and out of dreams -

the incoherent visions of sleep,

the frustrated wishes

of desire, ambition

overreach.

There are nightmares, and reveries,

but we speak mostly of dreams.

As if hope only comes

under cover

in fitful sleep.

As if a flat grey day

that reminds me of wet wool,

and old newspapers

under rubber boots

near the entrance-way,

can make them go away

for good.

As insubstantial as snow

in a wet October,

lightly touching down.