(no subject)

[proximoception]

Men of snow.
We see them grow
Then back into the grass they go.

Brides of ice.
When skies are nice
We'll see them smiling once or twice.

Vapor men.
We see these when
We've run too far to run again.

Winter nights
Between the whites
The darkest dark reclaims its rights.

It eats a branch
Then half the ranch,
Seeing or making the other blanch.

Black repose
So deep who knows
If it's still as death or a sleep that flows.

All we can say
If you go that way
And you find a man with which to play,

And after find
Or unspool from your mind
A kind of woman not all unkind,

And later see
When you've gone from me
That to be beyond people is never to be,

Is, if you seek more
Than you've seen before,
There is only one seeable sight in store:
This open door
Down through the floor
Dark as the looking you're looking for.

Whether it's been
Inside, or is in
Even now, or its being is yet to begin,

Its ripple is there.
Come beside us and stare,
Joining hands with the men and the women of air.

Comments

[nightspore.livejournal.com]

I love this. Not every word (one doesn't) but I love this. I wish it had -- I think it needs -- a title.

[proximoception.livejournal.com]

The title is half the ranch, after all.

[karinmollberg.livejournal.com]

Me too but I can't help but pointing a finger at the synchronicity coincidence nightspore discreetly avoids mentioning: http://steepholm.livejournal.com/408503.html because snow matters.