Snapshot 22 February 02006

     how thin -- the hours
     away from my daughter

I am preoccupied with faith,
    its dangers and its solace,
as this snow falls, a drift
    of fist-sized flakes that sift
from a dim sky, then change
    to sleetish rain. An hour,
I'm told, for the average flake
    to fall. This stone is filled
with galaxies; this child is held
    with love. This earth is
baptized, not by god, but by
    neutrinos. In dreams I am
stalked by elephants and dragons.
    I put my hand to the wild
boar's neck. I feel its pulse, its
    coarse fur. Its eye on me.

EDITED because I suddenly realized that it is part of this renga. The first two lines (which I have just added) and much of the science in this poem come from conversation with Erin.

Comments

[Dave]

I love the word-music here. And the intimate relationship between enjambment and flow of (apparent) non sequitors. Not a single false note that I can detect. Another classic snapshot poem!

[barbara]

it is lovely; i've spent going on 5 years away from my daughter now. unbelievable. can't seem to write these days but i am happy that you can.