ICE STORM

I could not have known until now,
nor would any believe, how easily lies slip in,
fasten around every small detail
—enfold true with untrue—
each intricate tale a possibility,
until there is no way to see yourself clearly.

In an ice storm, waves like hatchets
slash through everything visible—
a shoreline ravaged like a hurt child unable to hide.
Birds draw into leaden armor—
feathers slicked down with ice and swirling snow,
find shelter in dense high branches of pines,
trees that whir in the wind like a thousand harps—
strange music
in no mode we recognize.

In the distance one dark lid closes—
lake and sky never to open
the same way again,
to reveal what escapes definition—
telling the truth when only lies are permitted.
The dream dreaming us so true we always miss it.


Published in: RE:AL, 2005, Volume 30.2