Snow

Indiana seems to have walked itself into a Robert Frost poetic landscape, white and crisp and glazed with frozen slushes and bare treescapes. Drifts cascade from cars and assemble themselves peacefully along curbs and boot-tracked sidewalks. Life assumes a state of temporal
pause, as if everything is hovering, suspended like the cloudy snowshowers that arabesque through the wind. A cold day, yet providing a strange insulation from life outside the little bubble of my bedroom walls and steaming teacup.

You’ll wait a long time for anything much
To happen in heaven beyond the floats of cloud
And the Northern Lights that run like tingling nerves.
The sun and moon get crossed, but they never touch,
Nor strike out fire from each other, nor crash out loud.
The planets seem to interfere in their curves,
But nothing ever happens, no harm is done.
We may as well go patiently on with our life,
And look elsewhere than to stars and moon and sun
For the shocks and changes we need to keep us sane.

(excerpt, "On Looking Up By Chance At The Constellations")