Mare Frigoris
       

There are economies we do not understand. I dream of snow in May, flakes larger than the Luna moth, revealing what is lost, concealing what is saved. Some circle up like seeds from female cottonwoods. Some fly sideways. I dream of a white goat, like an unbound dog it follows me with merciless fidelity. A songbird lies on the sidewalk dead. Bird within a bird, filled with eyes. I tell it, Go ask mother why in pictures angels have no feet. I dream of a footless ghost all in white, vanishing like sunlit stars of snow. Hear her answer, It's a Holy Mystery. I dream of a thousand pages in the wind, my voice closing like a book. Listen to the thud of evergreens, dumping heaps and heaps. I am shaking limbs to make it fall again. Dream of deeply bent branches, broken trees, the roar of snow sliding off the tin roof, the echo of the four a.m. freight train inside the nitid white room, hidden in this white world, so small beneath white skies. I dream it is the last winter, that I'm lost beneath this snow, surrendering the untamed garden, the birdhouse full of bees.

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Copyright © 2019 Mary Kathryn Jablonski All rights reserved
from Sugar Maker Moon
Dos Madres Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission