The Snow
There’s no need to talk about oneself.
What’s real is real all over: a sediment
of cold — pure cold — is salutary to
the warmth, which thought it had the say.
You little enzyme-hungry bits and pieces,
life-shoots & insects, winding roots and sleepy
little failed things underground! Dreamers.
Putters-off. You tawdry little port-
manteaux! What you lack, my dears, is the deep
serenity and conviction that arrive
only with simplicity. It’s so much
more compelling and persuasive. My cold
is beautiful, distinct and architectural,
each flake of snow a world unto itself —
and as it has no moving parts, no conflicts,
no disagreements or clashes, and most of all
no earthly desires, is more complete than you.
Sinking into snow offers the mind
a crystalline whiteness, a sense of eternity
which I am only too pleased to grant, as a boon,
forever to my greatest devotees.
As for the rest, I stand, with you in thrall,
a permanent challenge to the grubby little
possibilities of that compromised
and second-rate, clichéd, unsatisfactory
ideal you others like to praise as life.
Katy Evans-Bush‘s most recent poetry publication is Broken Cities (Smith|Doorstop). She is at work on her next poetry collection and a polemical memoir, A Room of Someone Else’s, forthcoming from CB Editions. She lives in Kent and works as an independent editor and poetry tutor. katyevansbush.com