05 March 2008

chalk factories and other observations

The only noise is the noise that you carry;
your own clogs scraping, the zipper on your coat,
your inhale and exhalation of frozen breath.

The palette today is washes of grey;
power lines heavy, beaded with pigeons,
barren trees swaying, ripe with finches,
minor motions against a still slate sea.

(In the winter there are no new cars.
Last night you drove through a chalk factory,
just to match the arid pavement, cracked white with salt,
the tawny grass and penciled-in trees.)

Forgetfulness of self, of place, of life itself
can be justified by this:
sudden remembrances and stark unveilings,
when you notice the shape of each grey stone stacked in the walls,
when you realize that dark oak limbs, bent against the sky
are the only thing holding the snow from falling.


Anonymous said...

i love this, hannah

Brian said...

oh. oh, you're good.

haha perhaps half of the experience i'm getting from this is because i know you and i can imagine you zipping up your coat and breathing out cold air. that's so cool.

it feels like the beginning of a video set to music.

it all begins when you step out the door...