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Snow falls like feathers;
Down to diamonds, pressed tight–
No room for a soul.
Lucid awe-struck blue
Traps the voice, leaves it hollow;
Falling faces roar.
Ice is poetry.
Blunt punctuation, hard thoughts;
Words – sharp as angles.
Time with a purpose
makes up for what disappears
when the clock runs down.
A photo is all
we have of our rendezvous
between here and there.
This late-night movie
is not as satisfying
as what will come next.
Beyond the river
three abandoned cabins wait
for erosion’s grasp.
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