A little snowflake (inimitable, hexagonal
filigree) merges with its fellows, serene
glissando over fibrillated limestone.
Here and gone, out of a cloud-cathedral.
This pale, hieratic winter light. Small
Bruegel-birds flit through the skeletons
of trees, and Everywoman hunkers down
beside the campfire, waiting for the hunters'
meager haul. Hobo turns in his sleep.
Three tall angels, by a broken blue door,
were asking for him. Not here anymore,
he mumbles to himself. The angels weep.
Something stirs in the history of sorrow,
an unrepeatable riddle, already forgotten.
Almost. Like clear air sweeping a prison...
so freedom whistles from a gloomy bough.
In its own good time (deep winter snow).
Behind a downward veil of wayward oak-leaves,
behind wind soughing in the morbid branches,
frigid eaves, a face you don't know –
or barely remember, Hobo. Brother and sister,
equable companions – father and mother...
squared with the long dirt road before
you. Facing a vanishing point (somewhere).
And the line circles back on itself, seasonal.
Ties the knot of elegiac song – its hopeful
hexagon, pure harmony – mournful, memorial.
Tall evergreens above limestone, after snowfall.