How to Make the Wind Snow
Do you know how to make the wind snow,
or the night to look
for summer guests at the big house
near the lake?
I have a feeling there is a destination
that is not marked
and that no trail may reach it
for it settles under our skin
only to blossom
once a year during the passion
of a dance
on the beach with the skies looking down
and your finger on my lips
pleading me for a quiet moment to take it all in
the waves crashing
thunderous and you become glass
vaguely reflecting the stars sunning
the purple flowers and
the grains of sand
near the melting water.
The apple trees have turned a decomposing shade
while the morning settles the fire to the bottom
of the pit
where the cooling embers still shake
from last night’s escapades
and our voices are hoarse
as we rise stiff limbed and laden
to take our place
under the world.
I wonder what I should call you as you suck on a lime
my words about your slender fingers
to delightfully stir them
into a cup of foreign tea. I wonder what I should call
A majestic presence has entered the earth
through the backed up
of South High
to bring to us a fire trapped in the flint of an empty lighter.
We name it Providence
and these names and many others flutter about it like a crystal rain
blue and green and red
and meaninglessly beautiful.
Our time is spent on sophisticated séances
trying to reach each other
by the mystical glance or the enchanted touch
but my throat only tightens
constricts to see you
shouting all the wrongs of our pretty life
in the shower
while the shampoo burns your eyes.
I wish I could tell you how to make the wind snow.
Or at least how to dress
amiable for summer guests
in the woods where ferns
into the shadowed dells.
There may be a suggestion
in the depression
when the wayward curve of the land
unfolding repetitively as we drove along
unexpectedly bottomed out
in the cool apathetic light
of the high desert moon.