So many fakes, that grotto snow -
this winter wonderland of wool,
like cotton bolls, plucked weevil buds,
share-cropping set in black and white,
till wiser buds brewed in the field.
‘The fields are white’ my childhood hymn,
not understood at harvest time -
but much around the chimley piece
was foreign, water baby dark,
a wizard spell for poorly heard.
The gemstones, gold seams, minerals,
all stolen from their native lands,
but here unique for crystalline,
slow motion flake from nucleus
as timelapse may reveal when scene.
But is it flake, or fortune, all,
precipitate from sleet to shower,
and then full blizzard, whiteout sight
that sees a silent sound-cropped site,
much muffled till sole crunch applied?
Like dark night of the soul indeed.
the faith that life will spring again,
because and not despite the cold
(with irony that hell said hot) -
a blanket view not many hold.
It is the fall, come Winterval
(my Muslim friends send Christmas cards) -
those trillions against the pines,
cones stratified -grown needles sown -
that cedes to us experience.
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