Yahara Winter

"There's a patch of old snow in a corner
That I should have guessed
Was a blow-away paper the rain
Had brought to rest..."

– Frost, "A Patch of Old Snow








Where two days ago the dead leaves
served us with nothing more than questions,
the clouds have now rushed in and spread
their fine white blankets of glitter instead.
How inside the eye changes its suggestions,
and as I walk along the smooth printed
sidewalk footsteps are in jest of someone else,
the crow is like a raucous piece of coal
in contrast to the gleaming whiteout
and no longer do I much care for doubt.
A new painting holds its hope for days,
as you stand it in the corner of the house,
there it sits a new found portal to a world,
strokes and washes teaches the painter
of things you did not fully realize at creation.
And so the arctic mists that sizzle up
from windburned snowbanks seem to soothe
to a blue innocence the mind a day or two.