This poem it's called "Snow."
And I guess it's about as close as I've ever come
to writing an aesthetic credo.
It wasn't standing on the socket it would have stayed on.
It's the only poem that I ever did
write that has anything vaguely like a Latin term in it,
and not because I don't know them,
but I don't particularly enjoy them, especially in poetry.
In writing poems, for some reason,
that is not a language that I happen
to be able to feel good about using.
This would sneak some in though.
It's called "Snow".
"Snow involves irrelevance, assumes
forms a priori a stone, tree, mountainside, orders
the chaos visible on slopes or fields and falling,
softens all in light, softens all the hard, dark, necessary
ledge of rock, wound to the peak and twigs that clenched down
that branch down through clenched Earth,
conceals and shines around the informed edge, the hazard."
I was thinking in particular in that
poem about skiing and about the way snow covers things.
So sometimes, you can't see branches and so on hanging down
or see that that's quite what they are.
And a friend pointed out to me perfectly correctly, I think,
that it depends on what you intend to use the snow for
or whether it's concealing hazards for instance
and all that kind of thing.
And also insisted in the fact the snow doesn't order chaos
at all but creates a new chaos.
And at which point, I found myself
agreeing with him perfectly well.
And with this unfeasible poem on my hands,
which I still liked anyway.