In the park along the river, mounds
of snow, small boulders of it, mass
along the path, their interiors blue
as glaciers in Norway. The sky’s
strewn with thick cloud layers, slate
gray, but at the bases, deep blue.
In the distance, under this lid,
glimpses of pale aqua, a delicate
color, sun lightened. I am walking
winter’s old dog in this dispensation,
its blue geometry of ice-encased
December roses, its white foam
of snow cresting like summer seas.
Against the sting of tears freezing
on my cheeks, eyelids, brow, I
summon a mind of winter to face
the fall of this fell dawn, season
I have feared and cannot flee.