In the middle of the creek
a beach flowers, ice for sand,
around a small dark ocean circle.
The sun the whiteness the water —
for a moment you can imagine
a different beach.
But here, as the sun floods,
sand melts into sea:
expanding the horizon of the black
hole at the centre of Winter.
The moon tugs on tides of snow,
confused by its light(ness) in the dark.
She peers deep, expecting the sea,
instead sees herself, diffused.
The wind gathers drifts, effortlessly,
more powerful now than gravity’s lift.
The sun at night reveals the moon,
but frozen dunes now glow as bright.
The moon shrinks, no longer a shrine,
just a gate through which sun and snow meet.
The sun has stopped:
a heavy stone perched atop a hill;
Sisyphus at last can pause.
Inhale. Look up. For a moment,
still in the snow.
Let it go.
Time begins again:
We slip, slide, fall
toward earth and light and green.