"Twin Peaks" Returning to TV?
Everything is Transient

Poetry Break!

Psalm of Snow 

I had forgotten how to say yes. That’s the trick of heartbreak. 
It makes you forget yes. The voices in my head were not kind, 
so you took me to the woods to empty out. 
My old shoulder was wired with pain, and there was a needle 
in my hip, but we lay on a wide flat rock in the snow 
as the intoxicated sun licked our faces with breathing light

like a yellow dog, simple in its joy, licking our chins and lips and necks 
and a long wind came from over the mountaintop 
and cooled our left sides, and the Sacramento River 
wept through us like time, and spoke its liquid foolish syllables, 
senseless, sensual, almost sentient, and I lay with my head 
nested between your breasts and listened.

Time to climb, you said, and I felt snow-wing angelic as we snowshoed 
above Castle Lake, leaving traces behind like snow rabbits 
with webbed feet, silver squirrels, prints on the glass of the world, 
a little evidence for angels to investigate after that death magic 
resolves us to nothing again. I heard omens in the wind, psalms 
in the bent warm sunlight that makes the snow mountains weep.

Something was coming, something foreign as joy, a clue
to how to live once you’re done with sorrow, a way of being 
in being like a long breath exhaled, leaving a trace on the air 
before it resolves again to air, the frozen lake, ice fishers waiting 
for something great to rise, the mountaintop lifting 
its white head in trance and saying its one good word: snow.


Tony Barnstone  
from The Golem of Los Angeles, Red Hen Press, 2007.

 

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