screen-shot-2016-11-21-at-4-56-19-pmLooking out the window;
A skiff of Michigan snow
Lies in “innocence” there
Like a story’s opening line.

“Once there was a,” maybe
Or “Long ago,” perhaps
Not a blow to the head
Or boot to one’s behind
But a silent invitation
To something still unspoken.

Tempting as it is to say
I’ve heard it all before
Or other cold clichés
I know the harkening sound
Is text nobody’s read yet
Or was it I who read it?
Sure, it must’ve been.

But here’s the thing, y’ see
(Or thing you hear, I sh’d say
Or read) Here is the thing
The res, the Sache, substance
Sold like a graveyard plot;
If sold to one who’ll rest therein,
T’s always ahead of time.

That snow, that soft white afghan
Lying, yet telling the truth
Invites my reading to begin,
To commence, “get out the road”
Always before it’s really begun.

A secret snow, like Aiken’s, but
Concealing nothing
Hardly hiding much of
Anything, or any thing not yet
Befounded as a thing.

Old Heidegger might say
It’s started snowing out, but
It is not yet thinging.

That cold wet invitation
To a story’s opening scene
Would herald a bleak midwinter
If it really had a voice
But reading, as I see and hear
It is a winter waiting
Not yet bearing footprints,
None of mine, at least.

I’ll step out soon.

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