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(13) Deep, fluffy, snowshoe snow, falling day after day. No wind, the ground slowly rising, covering color, rocks, small trees; smoothing out the many variegated accents and differences of the summer moor into long, white, sweeping, elegant, legato lines suspended in time like clouds to be walked upon. |
If you could see it, the moon would seem
so close that you could poke a pole at it.
No path, even the grouse don't seem to be about, and
the pool has vanished without a trace.
They say there are places so powerfully peaceful and
quiet, that, if one were to play a properly tuned, long
wooden alpine horn in the right direction,
at the right moment,
that the sound of the higher partials would carry
over every visible peak
and beyond,
and in some deeply forested,
remote valleys,
not be heard for more
than a million years.