As/Is







12.03.2004


Pacem

No one hears the snow
accumulate on lawns,
leaving a smooth place

for signature of tracks
open to daylight
melting footprints,

toward night when chill
solidifies small history.

Is there a beginning traceable
to points that turn to line,

a shapely flow in
recollection of the blooms
thin sheet of grassblades,

birds as if by chance
in mind upon a limb?