raingutters.

In the morning, the snow lingers on the slanted windows,
Making small beams of light on the wood floor.

Smoke from the incense stick, clings to the air,
Like red vinegar in oil. Twisting and turning.

Last night, I walked as the snow fell.
I watched it tumbling beneath the pale green streetlamp.

I opened my mouth wide, and did the dance.
The one where you move around frantically, trying to catch the flakes on your tongue.

I walked slowly up the hill, and looked out on the town.
The old brick buildings, beginning to collect the white.

I walked around the block, and stood beneath an overhang as the cars went by.
I stuck my leg out, pretending to be a statue.

I guess this is my home now, this place where the snow falls.
Funny how long it takes a place to feel like home.

I suppose it’s about shedding my blood here.
Chopping the wood, and cleaning the raingutters.

But what do raingutters do when it snows?
Do they serve any purpose or just sit there waiting?

In a way, we’re all waiting.
Waiting for this moment to end, and the next to arrive.

One long succession of moments, blending into the next.
In a way, we’re all just raingutters in a snowstorm.

Posted by jeff pitcher at November 8, 2004 11:37 AM

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