Up slides the blind and out of remotest heaven
from a perlmutter sky
falls the pure, the Brownian, upward drifting snow
casually but surely, in high-blown whorls;
on the rail has settled a bluish inch.
'It's cold', croaks the bird, on yellow, thin legs,
so I rise. Snow fills last years rifts and sifts
on sticks and galls and nodes of last years'
pride, the dormant window boxes;
Outside you can almost hear it breathe;
It seethes, that bush
that stays green all the winter.
A day. To pass. A day to pass
till sleeping time, again, and blinded once more,
to sleep between footboard and bedstead; only snow-
penniless, homeless, less all
those things that fellow in the Citroen specified needing
hurtling down-Rhine, years ago, breeding
difficult to translate: There is nothing to do but go on
Chaos death is, one hears, and, frankly I'm not ready.
So many winters in one guesses it's all good: the season, the falling snow, the sleep.
Comments about this poem (Uprisings by Morgan Michaels )
The best paperback
books of 2013
Heart of Darkness and Other Great Works by Joseph Conrad
See the Original Magazine Publication
Samuel R. Delany Has Been Named Grand Master
For 2013 By The Science Fiction And Fantasy Writers Of America
The Best Poetry Books
Top 500 Poems
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
William Ernest Henley
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings