is this the afternoon of Ten Thousand Years?
i hear crows cawing and i catch falling snow
on my tongue to quench the thirst for world vanities

and for love

i will let the long day carry me to some
grassy dream.  my body sleeps fitfully
in its magic bed; quivers at the slightest
current of air.

and in my dreams, the wind repeats tales
of other dreams, stars burn bluer
than the cornflowers of childhood.

over ages of silence, Li Bai's boat scrapes
on the sandbar.  what quest was lost?
what wine was spilled?
what eyes have wept?

what dreams unveil the spirit
and who listens to the stars
as i do?

no more lamenting in the bamboo grove,
no more ghost cries of heroes
and kings long dead.

only snow.  snow and crows.

fairyland. boundless snow
and depthless cold
clawing at the wind

and in the oven, my thanksgiving turkey
cooking, weeks late.
words hang like frozen banners
in space. icicles are strung
like chimes. my computer erases
whole lines of poetry
at whim.

the hat i am knitting has
fifteen rows to go
and there are only two rows
left on the skein.

the gray fur ruffles gently
on a roadkilled cat,
as if by a cosmic caress.
it gets flatter
with every passing tire.

it was during a snowstorm
when my grandmother stopped speaking
and started waiting for death.
she would not look in a mirror.
she threw away her false teeth

and waited for ten irritable years.

death came in the night when she stopped waiting.

there are things to remember:
scraping a split hog,
planting rows of corn
with a baby on my back,
rocking a fractious child

to the sound that
bamboo makes in air
that is heavy with the scent
of honeysuckle.
i remember a cabin.
a husband.
and a summer night
when all the stars fell.

today the view from my window
is a fairyland covered
with white frosting.   snow a foot deep:

my plow guy called and quit