Just
a quick glance through the streaky, steamy window,
And
my heart is momentarily engulfed in a jealous rage.
To
be mocked by, and unable to turn away from
Winter’s
passionately loving embrace of Land.
The
snow rushing, spinning, filled to the brim and
Falling
urgently to meet the ground.
Preternaturally
attracted to gathering in graceful clusters,
Downy
blankets. But, this lust-driven explosion begins
With
slowly sweeping, long and low Clouds that
Pan
across from the southwest corner to the northeast
Point
of Erie’s shore.
When
they reach the sultry, drawn in curves of
Niagara’s
mouth and – panting –
Take
a rest, must catch their breath,
It
is then their sights become intently fixed
On
the dormant yet unquestionably magnetic,
The
dynamic and comforting breach of Land
Turning
away and leaving Water. The lines of shore, an
Outstretched
hand that reaches back. The limb that knows
The
sacrifices we make for distance, separation. That relentlessly futile
Quest
for a sense of our own, distinct identity.
Winter
Clouds can see the depth and despair of Land’s regret.
And
as a distraction from grief, a measure of their love, an effort to woo,
They
release almost weightless pearls
That
wash in to our small harbors.
Begrudgingly
we wade through this gift.
Precious
little time is spent acknowledging its wealth.
Most
often it appears as inconvenient as
The
television’s static, the distasteful white-noise
That interrupts our already scheduled
programming.
