The snow is drifting from blade
of dried grass to the next.
Drifting in the wind like a dying thought
and not looking back.
On into the light where things are clearer,
but still not clear enough.
Enough light to make sense
of the drifting ideas and notions,
leaving no room to exhale.
But enough to make you stop
and count the flakes and figure things out.
Enough to evaluate the light and notice
your notion that the snow is drifting.
Enough to zip up your jacket from the cold.
Hold on to the notion, for the wind drifts itself
into another realm of sanity.
Where there is no snow drifting
from blade of dried grass to the next.
Only a gentle breeze where the answer blows my friend.
And this answer has no end,
for it is just a notion.
Evoked when you glanced into the light,
and the passing snow drifting in the careless wind.
Drifting. Drifting. Drifting away.
Gone and away to melt some other day.
March 7, 1998
March 23, 1998