The Poet

White snake-grit, a thousandness of snow
tossed by the wind’s shovel, slashes across the skin,
bites and weeps into the tender cheek
as swearing blind into the blitz he goes,

a gaunt young fool, creature of rock and pillow,
mocked to the sky, uncertain of his love:
Welcome and skin me, dizzy anonymous storms!
For I shall be a torch blazing with words.

I had gone off on a few days’ hike and immediately walked into a snow-storm. The remainder of the trip was milder – see next poem – but continued as it were to possess me and empty my mind. Things had been welling up – there was a lot to get out of my system.