SOMETHING ABOUT SNOW
Something about snow today—its flatness in the cold, windless field.
The pale sun tries but fails to warm it, even though it pastes its gilt
on the dawn-side of birches and some fence posts stalled at a lean.
Still, the field gives nothing away. Nothing yields but silence.
The lips of drifts are frozen shut—they must be hiding something unspeakable.
Certainly, in the folds of snow there are blues beyond recognition;
nothing is forthcoming. Even bird tracks and boot prints are indistinct,
confused runes of some dead speech, a vast page bereft of signs.
The vacancy goes on forever—down-field in league with ice at water’s edge.
Two coyotes lope in single file towards a bush of struggling spruce,
unaware of dark ironies, those crows swirling inky strokes overhead.
—Brent MacLaine. Brent MacLaine’s most recent collection is Prometheus Reconsiders Fire (Acorn Press).
Each month Deirdre Kessler selects a poem by an Island poet for The Buzz.