A SNOW.
A clean mounded snow’s call to labor
meets most often will
breaking the skin of the drift.
Sure of traction,
movement follows, walking,
wheels. Beside such needful arcs
lesser needs appear: desire
(fickle wound that nothing seals)
and rest, a stingy kind of pause
that lets the snow lie,
ponders what splendour
a melting world makes.
See a sudden lake of light
welling in the ground, or ice-gems
dripping the spoils of givenness
and oh, how quick they drop away,
work’s whisper, willful mind --
beauty is the deftest knife.
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