The Temperature of Memory
The first snow fell,
and in the morning
hangs its hints on
summer half-dressed.
The concealed
allows what lies visible
to capture us more
completely in her beauty.
Deep in,
the rocks remember
months of sunshine,
alone they shake off snow;
everything else,
having forgotten, wears winter,
permitting his heavy touch.
Rocks are too hard to hear,
but trees and grasses know
that the wind warns; soon all
will be buried,
consummately
alive.
Not in somber state,
but as kids or cats under the press
of too many blankets -bodies waiting
to spring.
eric daryl meyer 