justwrite 11 february

It is minus twenty-two in the glarebright snow and my neighbor is washing his car from a steaming bucket of soontobe ice his mightbe child is kneeling in prayerfull downhill on flatboard hope at the speed of a mother’s outthewindow love the courtyard filled with wicked rugs beaten out of their dirty ways leaving their sooty pasts behind shadows on the snowwhite earth the pure clean pressed air water light of reflected cold packed they are like mammals into borrowed skins too thick too thin for the climate this is why we build and this is why we’ve filled our skins with feathers our bodies with bread and tea this is not a season for salads for skipping meals this is the time we try our souls on for size and shiver this is where the weather the worry the other the forecast the rough drafts the steam in the morning the shower the bed the arms you can’t step out of this is the curled up the doubledup the socks and socks and socks and the soup the groups looking out for each other clucking like motherbrothersisters fathers farther afield keeping an eye out and shaking heads at mismanaged situations the information is spread and the remedies are passed the classes taught are internal the diurnal rushes to keep the sunshine on the right side as the slick spots are clear as the inside seems near enough for comfort for when the dark comes up when the windows blink warning on the still about the doubtful reasons for such treasons against sense give us cause to pause to wonder to worry we hurry the pieces onward into some safe havens ravens shaking their told-you-so heads sternly as we earn our daily hours by keeping on the right path cleaning our views with whitelight cold