Winter Field by Joanna Klink


What better witness than this evening snow,

its steady blind quiet, its eventual
completeness, a talc smoothing every surface
through the lumen tricks of ice.
No one who comes here hastens to leave,
though the mineral winter makes a dull
math of cold inside the bones, a numbness
thinning into each fingertip and eye.
Faint injury traveling toward earth
in shifting silence, a softness in the weather
passing though us, dark moods of snows-
a sense of peace so deep we extend out
into the blackness of our lives, dread and failure,
and feel no hint of terror, only the premonition
of drift-design, the stars behind the snow
burning in ancient immanence over the field.
What lights a world gone blank with despair?
You were here once; you will be here again.

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