“how sweet the forgetting
of snow”
Keddea Kluane
It snows
as if a god slept hereabouts
and meant to make a winter
of his sleep.
And the dream continues
through to the second morning’s
wooly and rumpled gatherings
that fall like lambs
and soon the ground is one fold
of sheep, bleating and stumbling
through the day.
I want no part in shepherding:
let the dumb
things fend for themselves.
I want only the numb
habit of counting them
as they wander out of mind.
So much gets lost in the drifts.
Nothing is hard
through the fleece of this sleep
that softens silently over
the village, whose lights,
like eyes,
blink
out.