The blizzard obliterated all details.
Outside the snow smothered all color
and man’s enhancements on terrain
and inside did just as well—books
began to lose their words as white space
blew in from the edges, and music
disappeared canceled by white noise.
I started to test the rug as if capped
by a slim ice that I might fall through,
and noticed as the day darkened
my soles had lost all feeling.
No one would have power until the fury passed,
and then it would be pieced back together
like a set of rags is turned
into the cover for a quilt.
I thought of you, Donny, so many years
accumulated like one snowfall after the other
that what common ground we knew
has disappeared under this long sheet
of whiteness, our conversation stilled.
When I walk on snow, I still feel
the ruts and swales of history between us,
or like a river in summer turns placid,
gone from spring-melt rage
to a dawdle and dwindling flow,
when I immerse, I can sense
the shape the current took.
When morning came
I saw the lampposts first, then
troughs where the roads had been
and the first mitigation of the blizzard
in the chug of a tractor and a farmer
tossing seed onto the snow for birds.
We have not written for many years.
I scatter these words on a new page for you.