Snow Bound Hollow
I have spent too much time detailing weather
as if it presumed my mood
and it did or dictated the need for color
living alone in a snow bound hollow.
While the canvas went blank outside
and in, apathy to life muffled
down about the throat, with only the tweets
of gold finch still dull green and titmouse.
Long intervals of nothingness punctuated
by jays and the high ordinance of cardinals.
So much is white or black or gray that brown
appears glorious as it seeps through snow.
I reconnect with slime.