A Cloud of Words for Winter
by Sam Rasnake
The poverty of my words — an empty
birdfeeder in deep winter, the ground
snow-covered under skies thick
with grey imaginings — has no way
of knowing the secret places.
What I would say hides
in the heavy grain of rock, smoothed
into cold river bottom that no hand
will ever touch, no sun over pine
and laurel will ever notice. The trout hovers
in shadow but explains nothing
in the fan of tail against the current.
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Author's Note
Unpublished, unsubtle, unviable.
Other stories by Sam Rasnake
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The unseen, the unvisited, the undisturbed--and even the unspoken-- may they all thrive in silence.
And/Or: our only direct speech, our speech of closest approach, only circumambulates their subjects in gyres and orbits of whatever size.
Fine work, Sam.
grey imaginings ... and that splendid closing stanza, yes, yes--
*
Excellent.
"The trout hovers
in shadow but explains nothing
in the fan of tail against the current."
Perfectly captured.
Nabokov wrote, I know far more than I can say. In this fine poem you limn silence in its places, with tact and love.
"The poverty of my words"
Cuts to the quick.*
This, this is beautiful.
Winter-filled indeed. "What I would say hides"*
I love that closing *
gorgeous.
Beautiful imagery painting a perfect picture of the natural world.
“The poverty of my words…” nice. *
A beautiful winter poem. Thank you.