Mark Belair 3 | williamray

Onto the polished wooden pyramid
of a piano-top metronome

fits a slat that hooks
at its peak

to protect its pendulum
when stilled.

Which turns the metronome
into a mini Egyptian crypt

until, unlocked
and resurrected to resume

its count, it ticks
from where it stopped:

in time we imagined
past.

Even tree trunks hold

this dense a fall of snow.

All stands simplified.

All stands at peace.

All stands in one reality.

Snow falling that blindingly.

A stone fence

all but buried in snow.

An oak tree

snapped in half.

Boot prints—

sunk into a long stretch of snow—

vanishing

into the dark woods ahead.

Swirling snow and lace curtains.

White on white.

The glass between them cold as death.

Thin as life.