Solid black morning.
I light the lamp, an arc of rickety light
trembles and breaks on the splintery chopping block
still in its sleeve of silvery bark.
The handle of an axe melting with rain
waiting for someone, anyone to take it up again.
The silence beyond goes on forever,
(the world ending in the weeds at the far edge of my garden)
poised like the axe, the droplets of rain on the handle,
waiting for something,
anything to happen.
Waits, as it turns out, for the first flake of snow.
Late in the afternoon (things less solid now)
it finally falls, just one solitary paper-scissor cut out shape
that unfolds out of the blue,
from the other side of the world
to settle on the handle of the axe
and then be gone, like all good things,
before it even came.