Cold Shoes

The citizens of the north wind

Don't look upon each other as neighbours.

Birds, I mean. They wear their fences:

Feathers the colour of oil or soap.

They dwell, like glaciers and sour air,

And winter is so glossy the eye

Slides even as it spreads the earth.

Speaking plainly of things

Buried for all to see.

~.~

A murmuration of mountains.

With enough sky around you,

All the speed in the world

Makes nothing move.

Ink is a stain, intentional spilling. Not your

Way, I suppose.

Yet there are things to be said,

Whether I say them or not.

I ask you, pursue

~.~

Why does snow speak to me?

At the first you grab,

And you’re quick to make of it what you will

It takes shape without hardening

Slips, caresses, a velvet

That passes the hand by.

I’m not even sure which

Is the snowman, all parts speaking for themselves

Quickness, quickness, quickness

~.~

Curious, how every path is faster when you’ve been before

But this isn’t a conversation, since

That needs a trade.

A powerful one, deep skills.

Words are helpful, but sometimes...

Now, let’s not get

Distracted by the sweat we feel later.

After all,

It’s not the snow that put it there

~.~

Not the wind,

Sticks nor stones

Try not to ask too hard, or you’ll have Spring.

On that edge, you can dip through bone like cream

Make a visor so the land can speak

Fluent with daylight and disruptive colouration.

There is gratitude, I know, in your merciless love.

And so I honour you.

With feet that leave friction behind.