Prairie Snow

This i,
Know — born to Autumn
though unrecalled, the first
faint years drift as selfless
as the snow that fallen yesterday
makes no claim to knowledge
but slips crystal to crystal as each
unbound to the other cannot
entrance the mind,

As none has such a will as to
seal, finger on finger, a moment’s
slender ampule as the mindless
vat of infancy stirs in the drift
of such. Would that I call this
Autumn child to account
for the death of things,
the first wonder to his eye,
Winter — the first word mine,

knowing yet unknown
the first faint years of us
gather on the hillside,
leeward in the shadow of all time
forgotten but lured there,
deep—kneed for the spectacle
of each lost moment glistened
beneath the spread of the moon
with no will but to delight.

Image: David Wirzba on Unsplash

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