Snow Storm

By the time I reach
the apple tree
on the far side of the field

the sparse, lazy snow
has grown thick and fast
on a shifting wind blowing it
in wide, blinding swirls

that turn me around until
I don't know which way
to head for home and cling
fearfully to the old, arthritic tree
so serenely anchored there.

Of course, the tree doesn't count time, afraid
of being caught with night coming on.
Of course, it doesn't worry about being lost--
it's already home--

but there's comfort in the way
it allows the storm to unfold,

the way it stands by me, our edges blurred
with those of fences and posts, foxes and crows,

in the storm's smoky whiteness and falling snow,
its tissue-thin wings whispering and humming
like a buzz of electric voices
hidden in wires on telephone poles.

(c)Sunday Abbott                         2009

published in The Poet's Domain, Vol 25

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA