JONATHAN WEINERT

An Ice Age

1

It might be fine to lie
so close the grass can hear you
low wind passing over

and the small
narcotic voices
of the seventeen-year cicadas

In your narrow place no light

No longer caring but cared for
No longer counting but counted
At length forgotten if you’re fortunate

Each winter sooner
deeper colder
later

2

When all the pines
along the burying hill have fallen

When all the granite steps have stumbled
from their staircase lifting up
among the toppled stones

When the last few gulls have
drifted eastward on their shallow sea

When the hill is gone and the air is changed

it might be safe for what remains of you
to stand up from yourself and walk
requiring nothing

leaving

no prints in the snowpack
going without arriving
or departing

New blue light coming in and out of you

Seeing
without having to describe  

   Contributor’s notes   
   

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