a remaining snow in a spring wood

a remaining snow in a spring wood
finds me delirious in my
search for something real;
that i might roll into the
day anew, so very long-bereft of the sun.

however, this is not the
melancholia of some departed
faith, but an inward cheer for renewal
of my passion's passion and
a prayer to psychic rebellion.

the transient history that
became engraved into
legend on my pages
is an ink blot the color
of yearning and as vaporous as
the melting heart.

i am not sad, i do
not compel tears, i do not
stand kindled or abreast
of the dark, i do not mourn
the perforated life that i live.

this is me in one
elegant instance,
one pedestrian, drawn moment
looking out-toward as
much as in-toward, and
away from the vertigo.

i've ventured here often,
if not to this particular spot
then certainly to many spring
woods and many melting
islands, and the vision
has always made me feel
something like loss.

to puzzle over the notion
of this type of change: the
monumentally slow
revolution that takes its
time beneath the sun
and cannot be witnessed
in time, but over time,

yet still take you by
surprise and leave you feeling
as though you lost your chance
to mark the moments in
a momentous way.

this type of encounter -
the snow-in-a-spring-wood -
once was a trip into
a world of dark dreams,
of plunging into wells
of the darkest waters.

now, today - and of late -
i am finding that i was
wrong about the meaning
of it.

i have a marked friend
who stands within her own
greening wood, witnessing her
own snowy cay, and wondering
how her promised adventure into
transfiguring love had been deposed;

redacted by the hand of
the one who once was
her infinite dream, her
epoch of planets, her sacred
source.

how it all collapsed is
beyond her farthest
reach, the balance tipped
and all things yawing with
the weight of life's cumbersome
stones.

she stands now in her own orgasm
of nature with this mind frame, unable
to counter-balance, unable to come
to terms, unable to not be subdued.

i would say to her that
although she feels her
entire day-life has spread
itself across the witnesses
of memory, stretched as
thin as the web across the eyes,

this simple patch of presiding
snow tucked in the shade of
trees is not a mark of predestination,
not a symbol of the evil fortune
cast upon her.

it is, rather, something of a
quiet smile from a distant,
serene face whose deliberate
fortune of being there before
her in this moment is a
good thing indeed.

like my own discovered,
primal, impermanent
snow, which once made me
feel as though the things
of life that seem to be the
proverbs of doom,

is in fact a small rebellion
against the enemies of truth;
that decay and the withering
of things is not the death agent
that we've come to fear,

but the impetus of exuberant
change. evolution is the
hallmark of lovers who, in
their collisions, expunge
hate and bring forth life.

i left the woods on a monday
late morning, returning the
next day to find the snow
all but gone, but the earth
into which it had found its
way, was soft as the sound
of peace.