I stare into the lens, reflecting a younger me,
drawing figures, white hotness in snow.
She harvests angels and castles
— prismatic statues to tribute north’s
winter, while reaching for sterile branches
above. She can’t see me, as the moon
rounds its cloud ledge. Snowflakes seek
the air; she looks at their patterns —
my life, this moment, this now.
I watch her draw snow into forms of today,
perfect shapes for tomorrow’s past.
Pop-satin signature, now twisted blue.
And as I sit on the desert floor,
a butterscotch sorceress bites
my shoulders — cacti spines, hostile on palms.
Process notes: I used a form idea from Diane Lockward’s January poetry newsletter. If, you don’t know about her newsletter, you should sign up. (good info) here’s the link: