When a frigid blue tinges everything:
The newborn snow that blankets the hinterland
in the middle of December
under an icy moon, pale and serene as a queen in death
but much more ready to come alive again…
When that frosty cerulean, its tint like a steely iris—
never wavering or flinching—
lies like a cobweb over the untouched tundra,
and tiny crystals grip the brittle needles of the pines
while the weight of snowflakes fallen from retreating clouds
press the branches groundward--
When the kniving gusts are still miles away,
and haven’t yet disturbed the pristinity of it.
I wish I could stay here forever—
never having to search to find this cold beauty—
never wanting to escape from the heat that so sears me—
never needing someplace to sit
and just…
watch.. . . .
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