23 January 2011


They say that complex feelings 
of visceral affinity
one feels 
for one’s native place
rarely develop again 
in another landscape

If summers were verdant symphonies
of vibrant aliveness
winter snowscapes were spare melodies
of mesmerizing starkness
embodied in remembrance
of blizzardous bare-branched songs 

As a boy waking up to big snows
and tracking out into white deepness
those soft sounds of crystallized silence  
have now transformed into permanent 
memory crystals of snow dreams
of my remembered native place

A slow snowfall of sublime silence
unlocked me to go outside into the
timeless mystic atmospherics
of fluffy water-crystal pillows
floating down 
sashaying out of the sky

A hard-falling snow
found me gazing 
upward into the skylight 
where the flakes seemed to materialize 
out of the very fabric of the eye
making tactile the crystal face of Creation

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