It’s been snowing. Arctic Blast is what they’re calling it. The town has shut down; would you believe friends made the trek all the way up through the mountain? “I love you bastards! You too snow.” And in the noon, my land is like a broken pony. Having silenced itself, it stays behind the fences with diamond whiteness. “Tundra me then! See if I care,” as I hear my equestrienne, singing through the trees with that old moonlike charm. “You dirty old city of iron madness, I don’t miss you; look at this snow. I bloom in its midst. This is my springtime.” And on the blinding earth, legs tremble like a little colt before the taming. The soft, suffering knees are frozen. “Feet! don’t get wet”. Before I did go outside in the snow-padded silence, with which the earth gains the acoustics of a soundproof room, I sat rhapsody-minded in my tiny room. Beneath mild gables one-hundred-and-fifty years old, thinking of the beautiful ones. I looked out the window and watched steam rise from behind the backyard fence, coming from nowhere, meaning nothing except: there is great stillness; a warm improbable specter in the unspeakable cold. I stepped out onto the front porch, saw deep footprints left behind by a pretty girl, come and gone soundlessly. I heard the vagueness of a locomotive whistling in the clear: a concertina. The brakeman’s wave, smell of coal from tie-to-tie and through the ether. I write to you from the land of the broken pony: of insufferable worry, vexing weather and breadless days. I write to you with new mild eyes and a gentle hand, listening to slow jams in the land of the broken pony.
Posted on: Wed, 20 Nov 2013 02:51:10 +0000
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