The night is a shape perfect with falling snow and a beclouded sky that cannot reflect moonlight. I walk the dog to the edge of the road, knowing she wants to go farther than I care to follow as the wind swirls up snow around my feet. But oh how empty are my dreams! In them I walk deserted streets that echo as if in a cave. And you are not there, and the house that was once mine is someone else's; still I wander in search of you and that lost home, arrival uncertain, destination unknown, as the snow swirls on covering all evidence of existence, swallowing up everything, even sound, even time, even love. And yet to be here just on this perfect snow filled night when everyone is asleep except the dog and I--can it ever be taken away? Will it now echo down in time like a rock thrown at the shore skipping to meet its own waves or like a voice calling out a name in a cave bounding off the wall again and again?
snow-thunder-- I warm my feet against your body
in Hermitage, 2005