except for the sound of snow

you are drawn by what appears to be
a yellow circle in the haze of distance,
but as you move past blackened winter trees
the spot takes form, at last resolves into
a golden square of light, seen through
falling snow. the light is from a window, lit
by what could be bright candlelight,
a flickering illumination that attempts
to cast itself into the dark, as if driven
by some pressing need. you see a shadow
in the window, and though it is difficult
to focus through the snow you recognize
a woman sitting there, backlit by burning
amber light, and as she moves you see
a small gray cat jump up onto her lap.
the cat, the woman seem to stare
together into the quiet fall of snow.
and as you watch, a small blue bird
flies past between you and the light,
unnoticed by the woman, whose gaze
into the distance does not shift, but
traced by the cat in every detail
of its flight, the pull of wings, the glide
between strokes against frozen air.
the blue bird seems to slide through
flakes of snow untouched. its feathers
the blue of distance against the light
and its reflection on the snow,
which seems now frozen here in space.
and you are certain you can hold
this moment still by thought, captured
in the golden cage of what is known,
keep it ever there before you, as you do
your history, your present, your future
in the same small frame. the woman
does not see you. the cat sees nothing
but the bird. the bird sees not the snow,
nor the cat, nor you, not the window light,
but the path of air it follows to its nest.
and all around you bare black limbs
of winter trees reach out to you,
would hold you close, strain to
brush against your skin.

---

a decent brunswick stew would have a squirrel in it

a squirrel like the black squirrel who lived in
the tall trees of our house in Bethesda way back then,
nearly 20 years ago, before our son was born there;
the black squirrel who fought the brown squirrels,
racing across the branches like they were pavement
or train tracks, a civil war in the trees as we watched
them out our windows after breaking each other's
hearts for the last time, though we went on for many
years after that, on to another son, on to Denver and
Atlanta and Seattle and apart. and if every relationship
should have something like that squirrel in it, something
that can tell itself apart from all else, that will fight for
what it believes in, and can race through slender
limbs if it must, knocking off dying leaves without
falling, still ours did not. but somewhat later in Atlanta
one day, on a day that for some reason I remember
as though there were a photograph, over bowls of
brunswick stew at the Old Hickory House, as we smiled
at each other in that familiar way, the sun breaking
through and backlighting you just in that instant,
racing through the slender tendrils of your hair,
I knew you were still in there, and that if I could
never reach you at least you were not lost, and
that I would always love you, and that it would
all end, though probably later rather than sooner,
as the limbs we moved upon were too light now
to hold our weight, the enemy too difficult to see
in the growing dark, and too like us to tell apart.
and the brunswick stew was brown and hot
and fine but we both knew the stringy meat was
only chicken, and though it was good and warmed
us on that winter day, would never be enough.

---

a poem about breasts

she asks me to send her
a poem about breasts
for her anthology
and I try to explain as best
I can although all art must
be episodic must be rooted
must be strained through
the circled memory of
the artist the memory needs
continuous refreshing life
studies are necessary
to work without a model
is to work not just without
a net but without
a wire first the sketches
have to be done from
many angles in various
light before the painting
can be attempted if depth
is to be so much
as pretended we are not
many of us beethovens there
are canyons within and
without the human heart
the quality of mercy
is not strange and although
art imitates life imitates art
beauty is in the eye but
she is just not
getting it

---

at the campground

in January
the northwest
and for some reason it
is not raining
I build a fire
you should be here
but you are somewhere
else alder wood is
something like pine
pops sputters burns hot
lights easily even chunks
this big which will burn
long and I throw things in
sticks leaves wads of paper
cigarette butts someone left
lying around wishing I
could smoke one but no
I've quit for good
this time and as I
watch the flames
a vision forms and
it's you of course
in the flames
you are naked in there
you are dancing
you are smoking
and laughing
and I get a marshmallow
and the longest stick
in the pile I poke the
stick through the soft
whiteness and push it
in as I watch you
dance hold it over the
flames there you are
dancing around it caressing
it it darkens and swells
it almost burns
my mouth