Saturday, January 10, 2009

North Face Glades

"The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

She stopped writing, that very moment.
Snow falling on pine, white ash to cover
And silence the emptiness within.
Subconscious realization that words had lost
Their power.
Even the echoes were forced to fall on deaf ears.
Were you not ten feet from me?
Somewhere so close in those winter woods?
Yet you heard nothing.
Calling for you, lonely, desperate for your words --
Mine, hardly breathed, before they fall mute
With the weight of the falling snows.
There is beauty here, she thought,
But even that thought was barely a whisper within.
The cold and dark will come again she knows -- is coming --
And then she will be sorry for loving the sound of silence,
Sorry for imagining herself, momentarily,
Part of its life, part of its death.
Can't wait then, can't stay here
Slowly becoming a citizen of Pompeii
But it is late. Too late.
She moves on, words left to the trees and to the falling snows.
Left Powerless. And she --
She writes no more.