The way the present cuts into history,
or how the future can look at first
like the past sweeping through, there
are blizzards, and there are blizzards.
Some contain us; some we carry
within us until they die, when we do.
The snow falls there, barely snowing,
into a long wooden trough where
the cattle feed on those apples we
used to call medieval, or I did,
for their smallish size, as if medieval
meant the world in miniature but
not so different otherwise from
our own, just smaller, a bit sweeter,
more prone therefore to rot quickly,
which is maybe not the worst thing.
Revelation is not disclosure. I love
how the snow, taking itself now more
seriously, makes the cattle look softer,
for a moment, than their hard bodies are.
Source: Poetry (November 2022)
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