Again the white blanket

icicles pierce.

The fierce teeth

of steel-framed snowshoes

bite the trail open.

Where the hardwoods stand

and rarely bend

the wind blows hard

an explosion of snow

like flour dusting

the baker in a shop

long since shuttered.

In this our post-shame century

we will reclaim

the old nouns

unembarrassed.

If it rains

we'll say oh

there's rain.

If she falls

out of love

with you you'll carry

your love on a gold plate

to the forest and bury it

in the Indian graveyard.

Pioneers do not

only despoil.

The sweet knees

of oxen have pressed

a path for me.

A lone chickadee

undaunted thing

sings in the snow.

Flakes appear

as if out of air

but surely they come

from somewhere

bearing what news

from the troposphere.

The sky's shifted

and Capricorns abandon

themselves to a Sagittarian

line. I like

this weird axis.

In 23,000 years

it will become again

the same sky

the Babylonians scanned.