Orphan Winter


It is the warmth of frozen shards
fueled by ambient firelight
erupting through glass bodies
in the eye’s easy cadence

gathered on glass branches
countless and encroaching
reflecting the empty fields
off the mind’s narrow larders

It is the towering horizon
gathered together by ice
holding the bodies of barren trees
together in dusk’s expanse

wizard-worn and diffuse
deep and crystalline
engendering memories;
the cinematic archive
of harlequin constructs.

And I could leap into this
and lose my history;
become like the frigid night
rolling gossamer lamplight;
in hot ensorcelled frames

I can’t make authentic
but will awaken with nostalgia;
a sudden violent spark
that evokes gatherings and revelries
of which I played no part

“My watch always seems to break
on these cross-country bus trips”
the young girl mutters to herself
through the noise of diesel
and lurching metal

but my attention is still pulled
like reeds in early spring thaws
and careless streams
winding through a quiet landscape
to places I never lived

and if I could stop the clock
and climb inside these moments,
even the simple ones,
like the absent boy
back to the amber hearth ...

It is the crowning carapace
of rolling, billowing snow
that moves the dial, and forces
the cold machine forward,
spearheading the radiant night