Posts Tagged ‘avalanche’

We speak the way old friends speak—

knowing each other’s stories,

the nuances and undertones.

She always knows just what to ask,

just how to nudge me toward

quiet revelation. I don’t do my best

to hide. In fact, it is easy

to speak of my brokenness.

We pause in a field

where the forest has been felled

in an avalanche—

the slender white trunks are strewn

in a chaotic jumble—

but oh, how clear the view.

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That was the afternoon

we watched the avalanches—

dozens and dozens of them

flowing over the cliff bands.

How beautiful they were

from a distance—

bright falls of billowing snow.

They began as dark rumble,

then burst into plume, into rush.

Unstoppable they were.

Powerful. Inevitable.

Such a gift to feel humbled,

to exult in forces

greater than our own.


Later that night, reading

the tumbling graphs,

the sliding accounts,

the unforgiving reports,

I began to understand

the scale of the cliff.


And as everything

I thought I knew

slid over the escarpments

of comprehension,

how clear it all became.

What really matters.

How we’re all in this together.

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Eleven Shades

the map is shrinking
still, all tremble, we plot
the points that remain


in the rush,
in the roar, in the rumble
the silence after


I hate white
this is no confession
I hate it


the body, crushed,
lungs, crushed, shape of a man
dug up


not my nephew,
not my blood, still
these tears


howl turns to yelp
turns to gurgle turns
to snow catching sun


where in my body
is there white? how
might I forgive it


out from under,
this struggle, we take turns,
sometimes it’s personal


sometimes the white says
don’t come near me, sometimes it sings
your name


I did not read
the obituary, only your letter
black scratch on white


blank page, blank page,
white cloud, white skull, white slope
another blank page

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