Winter 2.0

Erasure

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.