Snowfall — Yes We Must

Joel Barker

February 2021

Showing the blanket by tearing the blanket,
I am the first one that crossed that field.

I am the one that walked mute past the sleeping geese,
leaving them still where the snow cradled them.

Last night as this whole thing started,
from the overlook of a little used street I looked down on The Interstate.

Their powerful down-facing lights
cut a pie slice of South-churning chaos.

I watched and my fingers grew cold from the watching.

This morning from the bridge each bank was new drawn by the
incomplete snow.

I turned North to take the next bridge back across.
I saw the bridge bolted together, the drifts getting higher and the traffic getting slower.

And somehow no one had marked the middle of Waterfront Park and I was the first.
They would have been someone’s feet. They were mine.

Yes we must say the
same
things
again.

And we must try the rectilinear NO and the Explosive YES again to see again that neither fits in the space.

I could have been thrown right into the river or the fire.
I could have crushed with my heel the crust on the puddle
that had frozen and recoiled from itself.

The knife tip opens wide to the familiar frame
where the snow is still falling.