Seraphim, Descending

Spend all day chasing through the powder, under a scrim
of sun wearing moon’s clothing,
all short and shorn
under the vastness, the sweep
of gray mottled white
while the flakes fall, like seraphim,
descending
cold on my bald head, sting, melt, run…

I move glove over side of snowman,
smoothing edges,
as the excess falls to stain tops of my winter boots, brown
now edging to a darker blemish

I have no time, no time,
clock is edging within warmth
of inner pocket, phone lies silent
as the day has gone hushed,
yet still I run,
slipping

Watching as runes form themselves in contrast
white, black, underneath
the muted shade of the pine,
tall, bastion against sudden wind,
clumps of snow beginning to dissolve,
new shower
over the laughing
heads of children

Somewhere, yellow buses are
spinning tires
and sleds appear as an apparition,
taking to hillsides,
carving them,
amid the hum and chuckle of snowy young,
on the slope above the dead and cold schoolhouse…

I have no time,
no time left for childhood,
I am too modern
to stand in the shadow of the afternoon,
brushing the sting from eyes with the back of my gloved hand


© JR Maston 2007