Variation One
Crunching Snow an acrostic
A constant crunch
U nderfoot.
T wo versions—one fast
O ne slow one
N ever stopping, steadily crushing ice crystals
O ne
M aking quick forceful snaps
O ne soft one loud both
U nrelenting in their
S oundtrack,
S inking deep into my
E ars. These
N oises do
S omething that
O pens me up makes me
R attle vibrate
Y ield to the sensation
M ove in closer
E arnest attentive
R eaching for words to capture the
I s of this musical moment cars
D rive by as
I
A ttempt to classify the
N oise—somewhat like static but not white noise
R adiating a constant crackling
E nergy that
S izzles on the
P ath
O utside of this moment, it might be just
N oise, but inside it the
S ound of crunching snow is
E verything.
Variation Two
Conversation a pantoum
In the winter above the Mississippi River Gorge
I take up the ongoing conversation
I’m having with the running path.
(Mostly I listen.)
I absorb with ears and feet
voices and textures.
Crystals cracking, the feel of soft snow
settling uneven around my ankles.
These sounds and surfaces
energize, exhaust
speak steadily into my ear—
drone on as I run.
Cracking crystals make me buzz, soft snow saps my strength.
Crunching, snapping, sinking, slipping—
incessantly speaking, on the path
above the Mississippi River Gorge.
Variation Three
dustings a ghazal
Never all at once, first it’s bare—a dusting
an inch here, half an inch there—dustings.
It happens in the middle of the night
then you wake up to white everywhere—a dusting.
Just enough to make the running path dangerous
hiding the ice that’s glare—a dusting.
Weekly inches adding up to feet steadily
crystals congregating in cold air—a dusting.
Soon molehills become mountains, blankets banks
snow comes daily without fanfare—a dusting.
These flakes never shout, “Winter is here!”
always quietly they declare, “a dusting.”
Day after day after day after month
so boring so constantly there—a dusting.
Minneapolis—why no grand celebration
no big party? So many small affairs—dustings.
Variation Four
A Short Story of Fallen Snow after Alice Oswald
It is the story of the fallen snow
to turn sharp and slick and force us to slow
it is the wonder of a winter storm
to start out as snowflakes but soon change form
from tiny puffed up pillows that cover the path
to crystals compressed, their size reduced by half
or to a smooth shining surface polished like glass
hidden in plain sight near the edge by the grass
if only you while heading to the river could make
the moment go numb and freeze like a snowflake
to absorb every sound in a blanket of air
releasing when pressed a kind of noisy prayer
then you might learn like snow how to balance
the light of attention against the weight of silence
snow which when cold is so brittle so strong
cracking and crunching a sharp steady song
compacted by cold, yielding to feet
compelling a pause to listen to it creak
which is the story of the fallen snow
whose changing forms makes us slow.
Variation Five
What a Snow! concrete
Variation Six
The Biomechanics of a Step, Amplified contrapuntal
