New Year Snow
For three days we waited,
a bowl of dull quartz for sky.
At night the valley dreamed of snow,
lost Christmas angels with dark-white wings
flailing the hills.
I dreamed a poem, perfect
as the first five-pointed flake,
that melted at dawn:
to peer back at guttering dark days,
trajectories of the spent year.
And then snow fell.
Within an hour, a world immaculate
as January’s new-hung page.
We breathe the radiant air like men new-born.
The children rush before us.
As in a dream of snow
we track through crystal fields
to the green horizon
and the sun’s reflected rose.
Frances Horowitz was a poet of landscape transformed - by myth, by the envisioned accuracy of her seeing, by the incidents of her domesticity. What I love about her is the ability to weave all three into luminous wholes. She died at the early age of 45 but her slim volume of collected poems live and breathe on.
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