quiver,
every one, every single one, is beheld and declared.
THE SNOW OF THINGS
I donât know if Jesus ever walked
in snow, through a storm of snow
blowing icy pieces stinging against
his face, in his eyes, snow melting
and freezing again in his hair until
it hung in stiff cords on his shoulders,
against his forehead. Iâve never seen
him pictured that way.
I donât know if he ever witnessed snow,
Jesus the Christ wrapped in robes that couldnât
keep out a winter wind of the mildest kind.
He would have had to swaddle his feet
and sandals in layers of cloth to walk through
the snow of a mountain pass, using his staff
along the narrows of slippery rocky paths.
Once in a May storm, I saw a hummingbird
hovering momentarily outside the window,
caught in a late spring freeze and snow-filled
fog. He was tiny iridescent feathers of green
and rose. He was a flittering bead of living color
taking off against the gray monument of winter.
I wonder if people would have followed
Jesus, climbing a mountain through the snow,
gathering around him there to listen, the wind
screaming its own beatitudes, whipping up
sudden gusts and shifts of snow descending
again over them like night. Hooded,
crouched down close together and sleeted
with snow, they might have resembled
a flock of sheep huddled on the hillside.
Once I saw a work of art lying abandoned
in the hoarfrost and snow of a forest clearing,
Van Goghâs
Starry Night
lying frayed among
the stiff and rattling grasses, that deep swirling
blue sky of bursting suns and splitting stars slowly
being buried by pearl on icy pearl of drift.
He could have told them the parable
of the blindness of snow-filled fogs
and white-outs, or the parable of the linking
prisms and patterns of any single flake,
or the parable of the transfiguration
by snow of needles, thorns, and jagged
stones. The breath of his words might
have been seen as a holy ghost of warmth
in the paralysis of that killing cold.
I donât know if Jesus ever witnessed snow.
It may never have snowed in Galilee,
although it is written that he rose
to heaven in âraiments white as snow.â
WHITEOUT: THE DISAPPEARANCE OF IMPOSSIBILITIES
Anything could appear to me here now,
walking in this obfuscation of snow and fog,
a true blizzard, if the wind were swifter.
Totally veiled, I move on legs I canât see,
parting endless screens and doorways
of chilling silk and ice-threaded smoke.
A black swan might float before me
at any moment, a handâs breadth
from my face, emerging suddenly
through this solid alabaster, a swan
so black itâs a mere vacancy of bird,
a perfect absence of itself. I could easily
proceed, entering the fall of its body,
its wings spreading into their own deep
hollows as it vanishes with me.
And it seems altogether probable
that a white wagon hung with ivory
orchids and pale ferns and pulled by white
sea turtles could pass silently
above me, trailing slithers of pellucid
flying fish and ribbon eels twisting
through swells of icy dust.
Many crippled angels attend me here,
hovering on all sides. My breath,
the same color as this storm, floats
through their snow-filled wimples, swirling
their gauzy pantaloons. Coming in and out
of existence as I touch them, they regard me,
holding their muslin canopies over my head,
reciting prayers of blindness. In my vertigo,
I posit these angels now, not as beings,
but as fictions of time creating
the framework of a necessary place.
This dizzy loss, this dizzy loss is the same
loss, the same gain as dancing slowly
nowhere, eyes closed, with a boy I remember,
a boy who draws me closer, taking me in,
as a winter landscape filled with drowning
seas of descending snow takes in
and transfigures all previous boundaries.
Just now a christ with white eyes
touched my face. I felt the drift
of his hand across my forehead, his fingertips
brushing with Braille lightness
every one, every single one, is beheld and declared.
THE SNOW OF THINGS
I donât know if Jesus ever walked
in snow, through a storm of snow
blowing icy pieces stinging against
his face, in his eyes, snow melting
and freezing again in his hair until
it hung in stiff cords on his shoulders,
against his forehead. Iâve never seen
him pictured that way.
I donât know if he ever witnessed snow,
Jesus the Christ wrapped in robes that couldnât
keep out a winter wind of the mildest kind.
He would have had to swaddle his feet
and sandals in layers of cloth to walk through
the snow of a mountain pass, using his staff
along the narrows of slippery rocky paths.
Once in a May storm, I saw a hummingbird
hovering momentarily outside the window,
caught in a late spring freeze and snow-filled
fog. He was tiny iridescent feathers of green
and rose. He was a flittering bead of living color
taking off against the gray monument of winter.
I wonder if people would have followed
Jesus, climbing a mountain through the snow,
gathering around him there to listen, the wind
screaming its own beatitudes, whipping up
sudden gusts and shifts of snow descending
again over them like night. Hooded,
crouched down close together and sleeted
with snow, they might have resembled
a flock of sheep huddled on the hillside.
Once I saw a work of art lying abandoned
in the hoarfrost and snow of a forest clearing,
Van Goghâs
Starry Night
lying frayed among
the stiff and rattling grasses, that deep swirling
blue sky of bursting suns and splitting stars slowly
being buried by pearl on icy pearl of drift.
He could have told them the parable
of the blindness of snow-filled fogs
and white-outs, or the parable of the linking
prisms and patterns of any single flake,
or the parable of the transfiguration
by snow of needles, thorns, and jagged
stones. The breath of his words might
have been seen as a holy ghost of warmth
in the paralysis of that killing cold.
I donât know if Jesus ever witnessed snow.
It may never have snowed in Galilee,
although it is written that he rose
to heaven in âraiments white as snow.â
WHITEOUT: THE DISAPPEARANCE OF IMPOSSIBILITIES
Anything could appear to me here now,
walking in this obfuscation of snow and fog,
a true blizzard, if the wind were swifter.
Totally veiled, I move on legs I canât see,
parting endless screens and doorways
of chilling silk and ice-threaded smoke.
A black swan might float before me
at any moment, a handâs breadth
from my face, emerging suddenly
through this solid alabaster, a swan
so black itâs a mere vacancy of bird,
a perfect absence of itself. I could easily
proceed, entering the fall of its body,
its wings spreading into their own deep
hollows as it vanishes with me.
And it seems altogether probable
that a white wagon hung with ivory
orchids and pale ferns and pulled by white
sea turtles could pass silently
above me, trailing slithers of pellucid
flying fish and ribbon eels twisting
through swells of icy dust.
Many crippled angels attend me here,
hovering on all sides. My breath,
the same color as this storm, floats
through their snow-filled wimples, swirling
their gauzy pantaloons. Coming in and out
of existence as I touch them, they regard me,
holding their muslin canopies over my head,
reciting prayers of blindness. In my vertigo,
I posit these angels now, not as beings,
but as fictions of time creating
the framework of a necessary place.
This dizzy loss, this dizzy loss is the same
loss, the same gain as dancing slowly
nowhere, eyes closed, with a boy I remember,
a boy who draws me closer, taking me in,
as a winter landscape filled with drowning
seas of descending snow takes in
and transfigures all previous boundaries.
Just now a christ with white eyes
touched my face. I felt the drift
of his hand across my forehead, his fingertips
brushing with Braille lightness
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