issue 36 > poetry > turco

The winter is wearing its whitest winter face.
The wind is seeping under the window sill
And sifting along the floor to where we fill
Silence with dreams of spring. We would erase
This season of frozen starlight without a trace
If we knew how. Behind our home the mill
Has felled itself: its stones ignore the still
Waters of the stream; once, they would race
Against the turning wheel, their currents lace
Figures of froth in its channel down the hill.
Now it has beards of rime that are grim and chill
And mimic the cumuli of inner space.
May those clouds burst to let the brook fulfill 
Its destiny to destroy starlight's embrace!






Also by Lewis Turco:

Gloss on a Line by Whitman