Like two pianists performing the same
sonata in different ways, prediction
allows for surprise. So, last week’s
blizzard came this week and maybe
we can suffer next week’s indifference
today, the drifts and apathetic plows
piling it into corners, blocking passage
across the street, forcing improvisation,
the path no one foresaw until
the daily route was cut off.

Maybe too the crescent moon will crest
like the waves it brings up the beach,
and, also like them, curl into itself,
nesting and depositing fragments
of starlight and ice. Like frost on glass,
decorating the dark behind it, because
the very night itself dreams, the great
sleeping earth rolls over, offering
her children back to the distance
between daylight and the endless
space into which it hurtles
in search of something to strike.