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| Lull at sunset |
In a fine, steady, ground-glass snow
I step outside
into a muffled, quieter world.
In this fog of snow,
a willed imagining—
I think I hear you breathe,
you're listening again,
gloved finger to your lips,
snowflakes on your lashes,
poem perfect,
to the cars and toxins rolling
through the Casselman Valley,
a blended tone of passage
I hear now, assuring depth,
in a snowfall so peaceful it hurts,
a passage so weighted that sometimes,
in the middle of a mid-winter night,
from five miles away,
we felt the ground shake,
the trainsong running close to the frozen surface,
half elegy, half serenade.
