the snow still lingers in the shady spaces
like a lover might tarry in the spot of a long ago affair
while the poet tries to write the same poem in a new way
doing his best to disguise his limited repertoire
he wonders what is possible under the light of the moon?
what is possible if we are all gods of tomorrow
and the veil of time falls at the feet of our magic?
what are memories and dreams and precognitions
if the mind knows more than we know? what
exactly is reality if it is filtered through this sieve?

the misunderstood musings of
the once upon a time self
are often enunciated as reasons for
that particular season, that particular picture
or all of these films about ghosts.

descending into paisley, purloining minutes or
moments undercover, under inspection, under
the absent watchful eye, here are the hidden
heartbeats, the nostalgic glances at grace
and beauty and bittersweet yesterdays.

here is the rippled reflection of a man
leaning over the edge of the pond to
look at himself in the cool water and,
seeing his eyes,
reaching down to touch them to see if they are
real or just tricks of the light.

imagine the way he must feel on the other side,
peering into the stars, and the moon, and the
face of the old man that he recognizes but knows not.

mirrored murmurings whispered on the breath of the wind.

the snow still lingers in the shady spaces
like a lover might tarry in the spot of a long ago affair.