How did I get to this amazing country,
where all things are concealed? In a zinc-white blur,
pines are not pines, their branches are under down;

cedars wobble with the weight of it;
and harlequin trunks, hooded azaleas
(or whatever, in disguise) ignore me

as I watch millions of six-pointed flakes
drift into a mass, hiding the road.
Exile begins with the unfamiliar:

now a missed elm, now words that fail.
In the window pane, my face is gone.
My body’s lighter. I’ve lost my name.

Feathers fly, but no birds. Wait.
Those silvery things out there are angels,
singing as the wind sings, out of tune.

Silence now. Blank sky. It’s dark at four.
Blizzard, send an angel down to wrestle me
in this pale air, breathe life into my throat.

Let a tough angel crack the roof and shake me
with blessings. I’d trudge out into day
with new eyes, a new name, and song.