Today I fold six inches of perfect snow,
crisply pleating the whips and peaks
of dazzling white, tucking in this edge
sloping over the hives and see? It becomes
an icy letter of cloud, burst and spilt
in smooth sheets, a revelation
on my tongue, my raw fingers. This
alabaster sun starts tears
in my eyes—let me never forget.
It stands with pristine blue
shadow and juncos quibbling,
on perfect miniature points—
baby deer hooves. Her wet-stained
flanks heave gently on the windowsill,
her breath hangs in small silver puffs.
I wrote this poem on the day after Christmas, 2020. It was a brilliantly snowy day, and late in the year to be seeing tiny deer tracks, but we clearly had a newling around. When I sat down to write, I wanted nothing more than to be able to fold up the sun, snow, and baby and put it in my pocket (or on my windowsill) forever.
I’ve always loved origami, and it shows up in many of my poems. You can see some of the other at the links below:
Read: Kōzogami
Read: Origami Instructions for Folding a Bee
Read: “Waterfall” from Linen Paper (on ANMLY, where it was originally published; scroll down)
Read: Boxes
Read Not a Poem
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