january 18: there is snow

there is snow

Autumn eats its leaf out of my hand: we are friends.

From the nuts we shell time and we teach it to walk:

Then time returns to the shell.

                                                                Paul Celan

                                                                Corona

for Sarah Contino

in the way of this

particular rain,

how it makes

like hay (needing sun) in a cloud

and seed, an always warm/cool

loose moving cloud.

or similar

of snow: a cold

layered crystal haven

although from here

from where I stand

it comes down

today the way

news of your death came:

there’s a sunning

patch of floor, a brief square

where the philodendron

desk plant pushes

toward her need, quiet and still

alive

and I know it like I know snow

or rain:

contained in those

roots or outside

in clouds is simply too much

to contain

so it all falls out

to to the ground

but never falls

to rest.

the news of you seems a

brass parenthesis

slipped around my wrist,

chaffing like a handcuff. 

and while some days its head down

in the rain and snow,

today, whispered

and hushed,

unbelieving, I open

my mouth to it

 

tongue an unglazed

clay bowl holding

what’s left of you

to sit with to sway

with in this snow

this rain on this ground

as the wind picks up.