Ars Poetica

I wake to
Dark peaks against a rising sea of white.

I look onto this new world of ice
Searching for any trace
Of color.

But all I see
Are a few marks
In the landscape.

Marks?
Like the red dot
Left by the blade
On my forehead.

Marks?
Like my hasty pencil
Sullying paper.

Marks? Like the remains of a day
When I smash them against
Thought and Image –

When my breath becomes fire
And I spew warmth or wrath
Until snow becomes air.

Underneath – I find obsidian sand
To meld with those bloodied remains.

Turn them into a statue!
Of glass –
Glass born of sand –
Sand born of dark peaks eroding –
Under the weight of days –

My heart exposed but
covered by translucent glass,
a few words,
maybe even                                poetry.

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