A gray-haired poet once warned me:
The world will end in ice.
But if it all went down on this white winter walk,
It would be alright.
In the long list of doomsayers:
The preacher, scientist, and thief,
I’ll take the poet over anyone,
Any prediction, any belief.
Our footsteps barely make a sound,
The wind erases every mark,
The midnight blanket all around us:
Silent, cold, and dark.
But I see your face a-glowing,
And I feel your bare skin heat,
Just like the sunset after the day sky fell:
Red and deep.
How will the cable news report us?
How will the talking heads react?
With what level of hypocrisy
Will we be attacked?
Our production rates must be slipping.
Our sense of entitlement grows,
To find love, to find life in the now,
In this night of snow.
Let’s take all the fears in front of us.
Let’s take all these past regrets,
And go bury them under that ten-foot-high-wind-made-snow drift.