Winter

There is a blizzard on the mountain.  There is no tea.

The wailing wind the only sound tonight.

An old Japanese man hefts a load of firewood on his

aching back up the steep mountainside. Fog and ice
coat the slope.

It is late. His hair is white.

There is no tea. There is a blizzard here.

Wind whines and whips the night. A lament like abandoned animals

might make takes this empty space for a crazy ride.

A bereft fright devoid of any light his only animation.

Trudging through thick pockets of cloud uphill, feet

slog and slip in sticky mud pasted across blades
of rock that destroy boots and frostbit toes
in a moment’s boyish mistake.

A patina of webbed thought covers all he sees or

hears, may touch or smell, sucks life straight out, leaves
him bent right over in the frigid air.

There is no tea. There is a blizzard here. It persists perhaps

for one hundred forsaken miles.

Alone.   He, and we, do trek on through the freezing haze,

deliverance whispers our murky fates in names we barely
know.

Yet….where shall we go,

                                           and how, for whom,
and why?


There is no tea.  There is a blizzard here.