Not all voids are dark.
First morning second day of the blizzard of thirteen, I wake up,
And out of the windows my eyes meet only white, white, pale light, and white.
Last night the snow erased all our lines,
Not so that one thing flowed into another, tree to tree, car to car, property lines, no
The snow just covered the stuff so that it’s all just lumps under snow.
The governor closed the roads, so except for crews and plows,
It’s empty outside. Empty except full of snow.
The outside is like an abyss or like a fog, except white, and like any other void
There’s only there what I choose to see and feel.
When I go outside my thoughts will echo.
Is there a presence in this blizzard? Depends on whether you think
Of weather as climate or message or if you can really try to connect the dots
Of billions of flying and landed snowflakes.
All the faces of my storm are inside, cozy, sleeping, reading, tasking, treadmilling,