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
