By Carolyn Pinet
This world turns again:
the wind gets up
and the skies darken.
An hour ago, we welcomed the sun,
the stillness before a new day, but
now, abrupt, snow slithers from the maple,
thin twigs splay like a conductor' fingers,
the music we thought we knew
stutters, changes key.
My chimney roars, hollow with meaning,
something, or someone, calls out in the blizzard,
voices are mangled, jangle in our ears.
This day I venture into words.
They blow about, elusive,
fleeing capture.
But when the wind riles up
and all things darken,
I seek what is still and pray for the light.