Loneliness makes me weak.
Solitude makes me strong.
I have no choice but to use the night
to explore my own heart.

I am alone in the cabin, a mile
from the country county road,
and the deep snow absorbs sound
while reflecting the silent silver moon.

I am under a kerosene lamp
and there is no phone to startle me.
Even the coyotes, parcel of the cold and night
have quit their wizard soliloquy.

The popping of the tamarack in the stove
is my companion, and through the glass door
it's light goes dancing to the walls.
My pen makes notes of my stumbling

search through myself. I wrack my mind;
I ache for revelation; my heart begs
for understanding. I am on the Edge.
Do souls sweat?

My ears poised keen detect the subtle
wreaking rumble of boots in snow,
a single line, valley wide, advancing
up-river through the tranquil cold.

In mind's eye I see combat boots crushing
trackless snow, kicking up loose curds.
Approaching. Closer. Now out of the forest
and over my cabin. Thundering

upon the roof. My little shelter shakes.
I dart under the big beam, afraid
the house will fall even while recognizing
the source of this sudden eruption.

It is the trees. A conspiracy of mixed forest.
In a traveling wave spread the valley wide,
they shake off snow from branch and clump
limb and twig, needle and bough.

They make an army of the empty air,
this passing, rolling rake of wind,
to free the trees of the heavy snow --
they came, they shook, and then gone again.


07.11.02
Westwind

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