by Christopher Kennedy
A popular misconception: The cold rain is my child. If anything, I am the rain’s child, though that, too, is unlikely.
More likely I am the father of a loose tooth, the child of a desiccated hipbone.
When the lark’s tongue sings, the full moon quivers in the sky. This is the first sign of a long winter, which I prefer to think of as a cold, white silence.
Winter horses devastate me. I want to be the steam that shoots from their flared nostrils as they chase each other across the white, shadow-strewn fields.
Bare trees invite thoughts of skeletons. Another reason not to think too much.
Zero divided by zero is the sky this morning. White abyss; eternity flower.
If I listen closely, I hear the crocus stirring underground and understand the need for Jesus.
Winter is the year’s soul cast in white moonlight. There is no soul to speak of today.
The mind wanders too far and comes back empty. Except for two black dogs excited about snow.