What itinerant sculptor might have come
with mittten hands, skulking along
the deadly cold last night
to craft this frozen work
beside the naked rhododendron?

Incredible, but there it is:
a clump of ice where no cause,
roof drip or avalanche, no plausible
reshaping of water might occur.
It scares me with uncanniness.

Arising from the snowbank,
a lustrous robe with wings,
it is as if a small glass angel
just awoke, arose and stood
in readiness for flying home.

It doesn’t even have a face
or feet, I notice, staring hard.
Which really does’t matter.
Suggestion has become
matter enough.  Enough

so ice and light
are making me a fool
and a believer, briefly,
I will someday see
an even stranger world.

3 responses »

    • I’ve noticed in some of your recent comments, on other blogs and mine (e.g. the tulip, the plovers flying at night) your preference for description that is sensual and fresh, of course, but also accurate, experienced, and not plumped up with the pathetic fallacy. I share that sensitivity and preference, and like that you say this poem moves into the pensive. It’s a hard row to hoe, a razor’s edge (to mix my metaphors) but we can keep trying, n’est-ce pas? 🙂

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