The Smell of Snow

Riding the Rim (a wintertime tale)

The poet sprawls,

spent from a brush with the future.

Death's contours are no longer safe to ignore,

its darkened landscapes, the jagged edges

protruding from its formlessness.

Vigilance is required,

and rapid thought transits

to carry one safely

to the other side.

And blinders, yes - blinders

to tread past ancient fears,

their sad, misunderstood corpses

strewn like empties on a beach.

Nothing is what it seems down here;

Everything shifts underfoot.

An act of compassion

becomes a day-glow put-on,

a gimmick,

a shlap-shtick parody

of care and attention.

Turn-tails run for the hills-

the distant Valley of Kings:

Vanity, mirrors and mazes.

Pride and guilt. Guilt and pride.

Where to be seen doing the right thing

is as important or more than doing it.

Maps drawn in cool

ankle-deep dust

offer no help at all.

Sifting down through

an eerie light,

reason escapes

the collective stores

of consciousness

and memory.

Why was she never taught

to die with dignity,

only fear?

She finds herself here

with no pat answers

or ethical guidelines,

glimpsing through the crystalline emptiness

of one hell-bent on life yet

riding the rim of the abyss.

How to drop off the edge

into the unknown

without a shrill railing

against unfair demands

placed on a finite understanding?

She sees it will be a struggle until the end,

until she makes contact,

bones clacking.

Let go,

she tells herself,

only because she was told

something exists

to

let go

of...

to drift

float

fall

condense

coalesce

or

manifest into.