Some days are pure snowfall.
A clean, hollow-seeming landscape.
Some days seem as afraid as I am
to pass through town,
to look around as if holding flowers,
as if waiting for someone
The sadness of most days
is the sadness of never having strung my wash
on a line, holding fabrics
up near my face as if trying to catch
as if trying to impose forms
onto the light that would fall into them
gratefully, as if finally able
"There are so few opportunities
to spread my arms,"
the light says.
Every night a skin of ice
covers the stream banks,
by morning light. Once free
the water runs toward the woods,
carrying the light's genes
Walking through some of the oldest sounds on earth
I remember so little of what was real
for the sake of remembering
I make a prediction.
The lake converts Fahrenheit
to Celsius by turning opal,
by sliding a broken fish
up the freezing sand
as if making the land
Frost's work has appeared in Verdad, Parcel, The Bacon Review, Third Wednesday, Grasslimb, and elsewhere. He lives in Grand Haven, Michigan.