Sunday, February 15, 2015


I dreamed I was the wind—
shrill, harsh, shrieking around the corner of the house
scooping snow and flinging it
amongst the moaning trees,

and as in the way of dreams,
I dreamt I was the snow,
a flurry of helpless flakes
swirling, flying madly in three directions at once—
up, down, sideways, veiling the landscape in torn lace.

In the midst of snow and wind
I was a sparrow clinging to a bending forsythia branch,
feathers fluffed against the cold,
guarding my small, valiant heart
against February’s bared teeth.

And I became what hides behind the wind,
behind the snow, beyond the cold,
that which remains nameless in its vastness
its otherness, its unknowable self
except in dreams. That which writes the world
in symbols we struggle to interpret.


Out on the prairie said...

The wind has became unmerciful the last few days. I went out and tried to imagine finding a warm area, standing behind a tree didn't work.

Marc Leavitt said...


Marvelous poem; it encapsulates the reality of the winter and the resiliance of the spirit.

The Furry Gnome said...

Marvellous! Sometimes words capture it better than photos.

Brian Miller said...

if you are the wind...i would like to know where my shutters tore several off the house last night and we can not find it...though if you are the snow, you were rather magical last night...i stood out in it and let it kiss my cheeks...

Hilary said...

I've had quite enough of winter.. but never of the beauty your words remind me to see.