Thursday, December 6, 2012

Winter 2.0


The hand that drew the picture, for all we
know emerged borne by birds from an empty
sleeve or split a rock in search of the sun,
small hard fist unfurled with the first rays

of dawn, grasping fingers eager to dip
deep into bowls of blood and ochre, smear
first wet marks in great fanned arcs, layer in
eons of gracefully wrought mutation  

while we froth at the mouth, enraged patrons
of the arts barricaded behind blind
certainty, flocking to the galleries
of Conversion or Condemnation where

we cluck at philistines, stoop to conquer,
plot their salvation or annihilation,
in thrall to a fickle artist, wanton 
pirates in contempt of the masterpiece

we gleefully deface with our wielded
tireless erasers.   You can still see
feint shades of wide sand beaches, intact tops
of green mountains against clear blue skies the

lights of coastal cities shimmering on
the horizon from moonlit decks of ships
at sea.  In a chair at the rail I sit,
my eraser poised above memories

of hushed winters, overnight snow lapping
at windows, late afternoon shadows cast
by bare thieving trees slipping the last light
of day into pockets, stark armature

of their branches extending fragile gifts
of sifted chaff, prints from some extinct beast
leading back to the smudged horizon, snow
shoes biting the bones of my melted dreams.

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