Sometimes, hiking up a spring mountain, I slow through a cold presence, a ghost disassociated from any wind, the busy loam above me warm with ants. It’s not old winter's residuum, either.
This cold has eyes, not menacing or even intent ones, but the limpid eyes of the cold dead, the kind of eyes that feel every nape’s tooth marks. This cold moves as slowly as black water, silently as the far side of fish: unpied, canopied – the crosshatch of hawks.
My cold is a watcher and a gift, the grave’s tossed coin, the dispossession of stone.
Posted March 7, 2010. A Read Write Poem.
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