Upon a snowy road,
It strikes me –
In my old, brown, bent, beat up car
It strikes me –
Arctic water balloon,
It strikes me
That:
I may not make it home.
-
The drifts are piling faster than I planned;
Fat flakes are falling down just like the clods
That cover coffins; and
As all my wheels begin to spin, and as
My headlights lose themselves in whiteness…
Well, it strikes me.
-
I caught your eye at dinner with my folks,
Potato lifted halfway to your mouth,
And smiled – for
Essential grace was present in your neck
In arching, reaching for that spud;
And I became so furiously warm
To think
Of what I dared myself propose
To you – to all that was or could be you –
With my quite small circumference of gold.
-
I asked you once if someone else
Had told you – or perhaps I was the first
To mention, that
Your eyes were like the Amazon.
They easily could drown a careless soul.
-
Today, I’m drowning differently, today.
The white is all around me now,
All heavy as an ocean.
Only sounds:
My heart,
The engine, and
The whisper of the wipers on the glass.
I cannot look away from them,
Those pendulums, crazed dancers, they
Who in the face of all I contemplate
Keep striking, blindly striking,
Whirring, whining, hissing, striking
At the snow.