A Late Winter Poem For Baharak
I have been teasing a thought
by Daniel Brick
into being all morning, and
since my morning began at 333 a.m.
it's been a long haul to find
the right words and the right order
to address you. Oh, yes, you have been
a partner in these thoughts since
they first bounced around in my head,
unruly and disordered, hardly the stuff
of poetry. They were as skeletal as
the trees, ghostly branches covered with
snow, the whole scene reduced to two
elemental colors, black and white. Is this
sufficient material for a poem? I endured
an hour of doubt, but in that time I was
rescued as surely as someone lost in a storm.
At first I imagined your face completely
shrouded in darkness, then I gradually saw
its outline appear, and finally your face
was whole, in the pale light of a winter morning.
It was not the sun that blessed us. It was moonlight
and glistening snow that brought us out of darkness
into the welcoming light of their special radiance.
And I send my nighttime thought to you on streams
of bright winter light: There will always be sufficient
light for us to live and prosper in every season.