The Virgin Snow

Naïve white drops fall from

The sky and from the two lakes

In Seneca territory

Near the border where

You were born.

Every kind of pilgrim

Crosses that border

Where you watch white

Unmanifest desire

Untouched, original

And new, like pure thought

Become substance in the

Cold, thin air.

You walk on icy roads

Past Methodist steeples

Frozen waterfalls and dusted

Tree branches, to a house

Built before photography

A maple-stained corner home

Near the creek that flows north

And empties into the Niagar

A home that people stop to

Gaze at.

           

You continue walking up a

Dozen or so creaky wooden

Steps to a bedroom where lay

A woman who will no longer

Even kiss you.

Out of the

Darkness are reflections of

Crystalline blue eyes and

Skin as white as the blanketed

Sidewalk.

A cool rhythm is in the voice

And a cold blue light emanates

From the TV screen as snow

Sticks desperately to the window

To then freeze or

Evaporate.

“This is not the virginity

I had sought,” you think.

“But it is pretty.”