
The displaced Icelander
listens for the wind,
the Californian for rain.
But the Québec winter speaks
in the snow-squeak
beneath leather; the plow
that scrapes us out of sleep;
and the white weight arriving
like a host of angels
stunning earth to silence
at their beauty
and sudden, mute substantiation.
Oh, these are so beautiful - the poem and the photos. How wonderful to come here this morning and read and see these. I especially like the 'host of angels image' which plays back and forth with the shadows in the second photo.
Posted by: Jean | March 08, 2007 at 04:55 AM
Beautiful, both hot and cold images! The sounds of squeaky snow brings back memories of living in colder climates.
Posted by: marja-leena | March 08, 2007 at 04:16 PM
Beautiful, Beth!
Posted by: leslee | March 08, 2007 at 08:34 PM
Beautiful, Beth.
I'm reminded of the summer I spent back in Texas after my first year of college in the Northeast. I was lonely and depressed and it was a difficult season. I wrote poems, late at night, trying to remember the squeak of boots on snow -- already, Texas was no longer home...
Posted by: Rachel | March 09, 2007 at 10:45 AM
Oh that's a lovely piece of writing. Made me smile.
Posted by: CdV | March 10, 2007 at 03:24 PM
Wonderful details. That second photo is fascinating.
Posted by: MB | March 12, 2007 at 11:01 AM
I loved this post. (Hello Beth!)
Posted by: Ernesto Priego | March 14, 2007 at 05:29 AM