Meeting at the Mouth of Niagara

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.