BlueBookPromise

by Jacob Edelstein

Every word for “fresh snow” feels used-up/ careless, timeworn
taunts tossed/ flimsy finite names for plurality/ like these pallid
sands/ cold strings of pearls/ blue & white & cracked & frozen/
textured like wood-chips/ can hear me/ or would listen if they
could/ as they softly glide ground-ward/ to be pulverized by
unseeing boots/ made frantic by puffs of wind/ flurried into
tufts/ & arranged to settle/ undisturbed on rooftops.

Here my breath is white/ is met with a wind/ sharp exhale/ soft
sigh for/ around the corner/ a reed metronome/ thwack, two,
three/ & the slow spill of a Chickadee/ a “chicka dee dee dee"
calling/ in the quiet and desolate dead of winter/ begging to be
heard/ stifled sound thickening air into droning silence.

Sharp, lungful, heave/ I will try to name/ the cold expanse of this
flatness/ like a clown/ to carve out my aspect/ from this windy
assault/ whipping pale yellow/ grasses in darkness/ their own
song/ a blustery promise left to the wind.

—Oklahoma, March 2015