On a Bus Headed North
20 below, everything fades to white,
fields stretch to a white horizon
each tree, woodlot is rimmed in frost
and the white non-light still holds
against an unseen dawn.
On the snow mantled farm the
red buildings bleed to rose,
the yard light shines like a grounded star,
and if I could stop and walk
up the long path, pass the granaries,
the black on white piano key
repetition of fence posts,
would I be a mysterious guest
a magi, or merely home?
But we continue north to a grey,
shuttered city, waiting for spring to come
and open it like a can.