geese land in the river together like some winter
flower, each one a petal that makes up the whole

snow day lets me lie in bed and rest my moon body
within the hushed snowflake air of my apartment

Nevada rancher woman on the radio says
“and so the seasons gave us continuity,

but sometimes the weather determined us,” as the snow
determines us, where our spirits will be. In Maine,

the 3rd floors are specters, they bring the essence of things
to the surface, mist of god strokes brushing snow from

the roofs, spirits of poets taking over your lips
as you read their poems aloud. the spirit of each

place directing my limbs. I know exactly what
etta james means & her songs move me wildly

shoveling, hooded and sunglassed in the heavy snow
my porch some oceanic shelter for bird wings,

a middle aged man stands in the road lost looking, slow
paced shouts and small motor sounds seemed to mean nothing

in the weight of that moment. you can orchestrate this
snow storm & broadcast your heartbeat over wires