Sunday Afternoon Poem
Snow
by Lee McCormack
A sense of peace hides the truth. Beneath this soothing white terrain natural order disintegrates: in the burning, white heart of matter chaos reigns. Still — so still the illusion is complete, real and unquestionable — even wind steps across the drifts as silently as motion will allow. Arid light, the light a whisper, barely audible, smooth and white as it descends from some unseen source so softly there is not a ripple of anxiety in its voice. Indecipherable, words disappear in the serene, white thrum until language is lost and meaning becomes an invisible river flowing beneath its steady, blinding chill. Lee H. McCormack, Martha's Vineyard Poet Laureate, studied poetry with: Galway Kinnell; Sharon Olds; Charles Simic; Robert Pinsky; …
