Lucky to evaporate in the cushioning sun. even in this historic wind, that changes the weather in a moment. seeds called snowflakes have blown across catastrophic miles, to bring an impulse we know as what our winter is. it is like this, I say to my wife, who is newish to these parts. winter is this place, I share with her. she’s seen winters of deeper snow and harder cold, but I share the special numbers and degrees of this birthplace, which I recognize as close to me. the sun is a hard case sometimes. my wife and I have seen weather in many guises already in our counted months together. this is the deliberation of what we learn, in tired trials (sometimes) and lightly spent evenings. we will have a glass of wine, temperate and without pace, or sometimes during the day, a cup of lasting coffee. we kiss in public, because weather is just and complete: it resides everywhere. and besides that fulcrum I must add the conviction that there is no public. I mean, sometimes I am nervous and noticing, but instead and in chorus, mostly, the public is just an idea to trail, if one wants. one shouldn’t want, I imagine. I imagine, instead, that all weather joins us to the day. the coming hard grey clouds will be one faction, and we’ll share it. my wife sleeps and misses the glimpse of pink that painted the early clouds. in degrees that brief massage will be gone, and the flecks of frozen water, crystallized for us, will tumble in a surface of reflection. the snow on the ground knows how to translate to the sky again without melting, a Biblical sort of immediacy. here we found ourselves guided by reward, or the sensitive distribution of our frail, loving ideas. my own coastal fears liquefy in a slow process but I know my wife is my day. the weather finds a hesitating channel of change, in our strange mild winter, and we will take this key and turn it. adjustments are natural. the clouds grow plump with tidings of snow. winter is with us, in a throbbing condition and detail, but we also change in several views, daily and fittingly. we’ll hold hands as the snow falls, and as evening melts into summer.
It begins with a scanning of light, a settlement of words. The lightly fracture of Bird sound begins in the office of seeing. Not sentiment but sense, as cool as Green in the Early days. Pasture resists nonpasture, no one Refers to none. All remains including nothing. Morning Is belief and there simply there. Tides go freshly to the point.
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