from There. Here.

What’s Possible in Winter

You walk in snow and leave tracks
and the tracks follow you as far as you go
until you stop at the limits of the field
and the field ends where the woods begin
and it begins to snow again, lightly at first,
the way an orchestra tunes up before
the downpour of music and the flakes
become music as they pour into your ears
and hair and muscles tightened with cold
and you watch as the shadows that began
where the field ends begin to be everywhere
your tracks were, which are fading now,
filling with snow, and the snow continues
to pile its notes on the landscape as if it has
no other purpose, as if there is no other
purpose, as if the only purpose is this