Parthenon Frieze

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Three Canvases in White

On a base of December blizzard

January slides in.

A mix. Of candy sugar, ice, and stardust.

A sculpture in raised relief.

And grief.

Although it’s hard to paint a story in Winter,

It’s possible

If one loves the delicate lacy bluish powder

Just as it is.

My tracks across vacant field

dusted with daily freezing fog.

Only brief is a gift of the sun here

All is white.

Street. Sky. Meadow. March.

All is quiet.

Hunched over oyster stew,

It’s easy to love the silence of

January.

No barking dogs. No lawn mowers.

Outbound coal trains hushed in fog.

Endless soft swish of sugar underfoot.

Dog’s paws crusted. And painful.

There’s that.

My lungs and heart ache,

As frozen mix bites deep.

Most certainly I will pay later.

But for now. For an Iced Hour.

I will worship these three blank canvases of white.

 

6 comments

  1. feywityou keep bringing winter words wormingbackinto
    writing poe et tree,
    my own carp entry pen sill
    seeming long
    still

    winter.

  2. All I ever saw was white. You (as often) helped me see more. It’s still cold but more to think about. An appreciative audience member.

    1. WHITE IS OUR SURNAME… perhaps a cold hard warming fact to embrace on this day of chinook winds I tell ya kid cuz. hold on dukes saysz..ahh yes..cold is realizing take care where did you go..

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