Ars Poetica on Ice

The night’s pulled down like a dark silk. The hills have it between their knuckles.

Someone’s left their horses out in the snow. We can’t fathom the emergencies of others.

Whatever has not been burned by now is there for burning. And I can see the fine, blue flame flowing through these aspens, and the rest of things.

Cattle fence leaning in the light’s remainder, small axe echoing off the valley’s white walls. My breathing has become more ponderous in proportion to my life.

Whatever the price of living may be I live beyond my means. An end in myself, I put a little ending into everything I see.

7 The Poetry Review