SNOW BREATH
Snow on the mountains.
Where did the wind go? I stand with my shawl
wrapped around me and listen.
Snow on the mountains.
The holly-pip red as a blood blister,
thorns reaching out to me.
Snow on the mountains.
Don't beg me to come back inside
lest I catch my death.
Snow on the mountains.
The river a hard road to travel.
My feet slide on ice cobble.
Snow on the mountains.
Gone south, I will say when you shout
from the riverbank.
Snow on the mountains.
Against my ear you held a conch shell once,
ask What do you hear?
So much snow on the mountains,
I hitched up my dress and ran home.
How could I tell you then,
hearing snow on the mountains
refuse to melt, that after so long,
a woman's soul searching
through snow on the mountains
will sink, out of breath, in the silence
of nothing more, nothing less.
From Black Shawl, LSU Press, written in response to an ancient Welsh poem, composed between the 9th and 12th centuries, in which the line "Snow On the Mountains" is repeated throughout.
