Again the white blanket icicles pierce. The fierce teeth of steel-framed snowshoes bite the trail open. Where the hardwoods stand and rarely bend the wind blows hard an explosion of snow like flour dusting the baker in a shop long since shuttered. In this our post-shame century we will reclaim the old nouns unembarrassed. If it rains we'll say oh there's rain. If she falls out of love with you you'll carry your love on a gold plate to the forest and bury it in the Indian graveyard. Pioneers do not only despoil. The sweet knees of oxen have pressed a path for me. A lone chickadee undaunted thing sings in the snow. Flakes appear as if out of air but surely they come from somewhere bearing what news from the troposphere. The sky's shifted and Capricorns abandon themselves to a Sagittarian line. I like this weird axis. In 23,000 years it will become again the same sky the Babylonians scanned.
Copyright © 2011 by Maureen McLane. Used with permission of the author.