It’s been snowing all day, large dry
flakes floating down without leaving
a trace except on walking trails I’ve built
that curve round the house like a Priest’s
surplice, before descending to a mountain
stream in the hollow, where massive boulders,
heaved up from the earth long ago, make
deep pools beside white water thrust against
granite. Inuits believe snow has many voices
and snow sticking to only one surface might
be a voice ‘gently speaking’, a sign of grace,
or maybe ‘the narrowness of the gate’. Next
spring when I walk the trails through rough
terrain in a Monk’s devotion to clear away
and repair winter’s ravage, I’ll guide my old
yellow wheelbarrow full of woodchips with an
acolyte’s grip as I spread them, trying to keep
weeds, slices of stone chipped off by freeze
and thaw and hard January winds’ breaking
branches that make fugitive, trails a snow’s
hoary crest seemed to pledge my protection
against anything keeping them from blessings
they offer to the mystery of a soul in its rising.