February 2, 2014 § Leave a comment

the snow was
a strange blue
as if each translucent
crystal had formed
layers around
a soul departed

I, not attempting for once,
to link
one thought
to another
followed tracks of a rabbit

first along yards
of sleeping neighbors,
down a deserted street,
onto the
grounds of a church

half way between the road
and a martyred granite saint
the tracks disappeared

I looked around
– wondering where it
had gone

first North
the immense oak doors
then East, where it is said
it all began
I looked West, a place
I may never go
and South to
the home of my kin

not seeing anything of it
I shrugged
and turned to leave

but not before looking
in the first two directions
I was taught to look,

toward the warning
at the promise

(c) 2014 Fred Whitehead

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