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