by Mark Robinson.
We talk about the weather often,
how cold it is here this morning,
every morning.
And how it should be snowing, but it isn’t.
Bleakness, be my guide:
these poems need us.
Without our voices, yours and mine,
the world is nothing more than milky images,
as if squinting at the moon.
If not through us, how can any song enter the universe?
Our words shape the gray florid clouds,
the patterns in the cliff side,
the structure of a snowflake.
We will remember this colorless season
and when we spin our spring chrysalis,
it will become transparent
revealing the brilliant inside.
