Autobiography of blue
1.
The limits of this lack of definition: first snows,
the powdered framework that erodes
often contrary to what remains. Two-pronged. A line repeats,
evaporated. Warm weather: the weaponization
of arrangement.
2.
It snows , but does not stay. Around these parts
, whole generations of trick-or-treaters securing hand-picked costumes
under layered, thermal strata: sweaters, jackets, scarves
and snowpants. Only masks betray. And
what are you supposed to be? A Dracula? Two years back:
carting jogging stroller and our two wee, costumed monsters: a bearing,
saturated, beneath unseasonal deluge
of cold, October rainfall. Their pillowcases
stuffed to overflow.
Today’s patterning is seasonal, delayed:
within the bounds of composition. Sun’s
pretentious rays. A patterning of dusty cloud.
3.
It remains too warm today
for supersaturated air , this atmospheric vapour
of water droplets
to crystallize or shape. As form requires: each flake that nucleates
around
a dust particle. Ashes to powder, our bodies fall
into the shape of snow.
4.
The season weathers, wears. An air of mystery: should we
turn up the heat? Secure the garden from frost? Christine: I opened
the bedroom window last night
for ventilation. Our two children, barefoot, in leaf-marbled yard.
To breach this memory even
as it forms. A splinter, snowflake; lodged. The sun
is hollow : an embroidered sequence
or a key
into this language.
5.
Imagine: I walk out the door directly into airborne sea
of snowflakes. If only.