Other Grace

Freight train
in the sky – nothing
sacred against such
storms as these. No
grace of quiet snow,
but ice and freezing
rain, and wind so wild
it strips the shadows
from the stars and lays
them on our souls, our
restless hearts. And finally
in darkness, nothing
left to see but who
we really are.



We ski on dirt
and twisted bands

of greying ice
half melted, just

for the chance
to bathe in the white gold

of January sunshine
and in the other’s

winter words,
falling now

like precious snowflakes
on our eager ears.