FROM A NOTEBOOK
The whiteness near and far. The cold, the hush. A first word stops the blizzard, steps out into fresh candor. You ask no more. Each never taken stride leads onward, though in circles ever smaller, smaller. The vertigo upholds you. And now to glide, across the frozen pond, steelshod, to chase its dreamless oval, with loop and spiral, until your face downshining, lidded, drained of any need to know what hid, what called, wisdom or error, beneath that mirror, the page you scrawled turns. A new day. Fresh snow.