It was late December then, and the fine
salt on my skin has already receded like
an orchid quilt in lace. I'd resigned against
the hiss and gurgles of the house dotted
in snow, as if solace can be sought from
dull timbered floor and silvered double-
hung glass bays. Unlike last winter when
there was everything to see from porch to
horizon, now the sky lay daubed in smears
of raw sienna and dripping wax of lead pie-
bald with cold islands. Scattered eyes
across the white landscape, I traversed the
plain to somewhere where something gold
and fair was awaiting to crack in that hard
weather. To know then I'd conceded to have
pilfered the earth and all its seasons like a
thieving tenant, I felt at last warm inside
a cloak of frosted pelt. And how this place,
with its pendulous hours coursing through
my wake, might just recover all of me, an
artist, a recluse, a drifter, a mad fool.