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winterspeak

Winterspeak

 

The Portland morning dawned dull, dense

as clouds slung their tense, iron-grey underbellies

across a low-hung sky, groaned and sputtered

and stopped, let loose their drops.

 

North of town I flew the soaked city

for higher ground. The world moved

in multiples of two:

two hours in a warm-car cocoon

two tires wrapped laboriously

in two tiresome lengths of snow chain

two mittens, two hats, two snowflakes caught

on a thirsty tongue, and all those thoughts of you -

well, more than two.

 

But stop. Outside the cocoon I took

two times a hundred steps into the trees,

sunk to my knees, let the fast-flung flakes

tumble with soft violence to my lips,

cheeks, face. I opened my ears to hear

the grove's winterspeak of words -

the murmured consent, the wait

beyond worry, a patience of roots

that lied buried.

 

A blanketing silence of time.

On film - two minutes to capture

the scene. A mostly quiet mind.

A few wishful

deep-rooted

dreams.

 

(Taken with my Zero Image 2000 up at Mt. Rainier last winter.)

  

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Taken on October 15, 2008