White Snow Falling without Wind

Calvin Bedient

(Thanksgiving Day, Foss River Grove)

shylight on my window,
              dead season in the loom.
flakes smear
on the river rocks, drown
              in the river:
born of the cold,
living cold, dying
of a little warmth.

            *

my behindscenes
beetle-on-its-back grief
waves its arms
digging a grave
              in the air.
where did it come from?
from birthwails
merelimbs,
              a mother's grimace
breaking the ice of her face?

            *

go down to the river:
a last salmon,
              white-blotched, starved,
flits over the buried eggs
as if zipping them up
for the winter.
              dark customer
die like the others?
the elements
              ruin over her head.
I would not be her, not
for anything, but for her
              love of the eggs.