I
While gliding on a snowy road,
A lingering ghost dances before me,
Barely a wisp
And strung together by the wind.

Particles are particles,
And flakes make up spirits.
The black of the road purged by
The white, and
The flakes swirl, clawing at it.

Whispers are for the
Good of hearing.
But they’re screaming,
And with all this white,
No wonder they can’t
Cease their dance.




II
When snow dots the page,
Dampening the ink,
Action is demanded.
Don’t let the flakes ruin your
Process, your art,
Don’t let the particles flurry your
Words into something nonsensical like
Love or hate or perfection.
Or the high you feel as you sled down a hill.

It’s all frosty mechanics;
The conveyor belt that drags you to the top
And the shimmer of particles as
You glide down the hill.
It’s all icy diction;
And it’s a wonder that
My pen can still write in
This weather.




III
Threadbare isn’t
The same as naked.
And writing words isn’t
The same as writing.

But the crescent winds move
Ink and
Snow and
Blood,
And something that
Balances the dusty equation,

Into the vernacular of
The particles that are
Flakes that are
Spirits, and they know that
Their intangible feet
Will stay tired
And frosty
And ridden with my ink.