The crossing from sleep to waking
was easy those early winter mornings
when the snow fell dumb and bright as stars.
My mother packed me to the nose
in scarves; she tied a hat to my head
and sent me stumbling in boots through hills of snow.
The way was a desert of white,
dunes whirling in the streets where cars
lay buried, humped and sleeping like camels.
And I loved that whiteness,
the unyielding blankness of it all
that left me alone with the whole world unimagined.
Today, marooned by decades
and distance from those days and winters,
I close my eyes to begin the world again.