Viven al Amparo de la Noche


and protection. Están bajo mi amparo—
They are under my protection. Dictionary work
of accompaniment. Once in a poem,
John Berger wrote, crossing battlefields,
that poems bring peace,
placing language beyond time’s reach.
Refugio. Shelter. Les dió amparo
contra sus perseguidores. She sheltered/
gave them, refuge from their pursuers.
Oscar Peterson on piano. Poet in dentist chair.
In law, recurso de amparo.
Today’s joke: al amparo de la nueva ley.
Old school charity on its heels.
Viven al amparo de la noche—under the cover of night
where the poem takes us in.

Jim Bodeen
25 January 2017

Women's March in Yakima: Rainbows on a Winter's Day

Women and families from Yakima, Washington march for Women’s Rights, Planned Parenthood, and justice for all on January 21, 2017. Planning for 400 marchers, some estimates were as high as 1500 to 2000.     Merrill Thomsen from the Unitarian Universalist Church, talks about how the Woman’s March developed from a single conversation after the election of Donald Trump. The march features work of artists, dancers, and original signs. 



The confrontation with Frankie's
smile each night when he
enters the shelter finds
me again. It's momentary,
this re-gained joy,
it doesn't help me sleep.

Jim Bodeen
22 January 2017


Children access spirit worlds because they live there, it’s theirs. They can also be taken there. The mountain, always sacred, is one of the places Martin Luther King, Jr. spoke of, speaking in the city. Mountain top. One take with grand kids on Martin Luther King, Jr.’s birthday. Ski. Listen. Pay attention. Wonder about it all, friends. Go out in good courage. Twelve minutes with Grandpa, two 11-year-old grandchildren, MLK,Jr, the Mountain, twin-tip skis, and the world that has been given to them.


"Out of the mountain of despair, a stone of hope."
        --Martin Luther King, Jr.     
          from I Have A Dream, Washington, D.C., August 28, 1963

High Camp is where we go on skis.
The bathroom break, the microwave,
the mustard cups we fill with honey
and the honey we suck up
with stir straws. I find crosses
in window panes, window reflections,
and kids looking through railings
at people below. Dheezus and Sammie
chase flies clinging to windows
for warmth and light. This is

our place and why we ski.
Resting in a brown bag lodge.
Josh and Kate this day,
11-year old cousins who opened
this back country refuge
six years ago, at five.
It's Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.
We have last night's pizza, Capri Sun,
Mandarin Orange cups in juice
and the 16 January 2017edition
of The New Yorker, so we can
read Jelani Cobb's article
on King in Talk of the Town.

Welcome to the Mountain.
Bob Marley sings
Tell the children the truth,
Tell the children the truth,
while Leonard Cohen cautions,
and you don't want to lie,
not to the young.
This is music made
from what we bring
and find falling
as the mountain falls,
skis turn and go into now,
snow new, recording promise
time with children.

Jim Bodeen
16-17 January 2017




1. We skied steeps on solstice,
grand children, 11 and 9. Four of them,
cousins, and a handful of others, night travelers
from other stories--big ones--
who found our fire, the campfire.
Traveling in the Mothership's zendo love
enables an entry through darkness
into mountain time. This time
comes through North Dakota white-out,
highway blizzard wheat fields.
Enter the faerie world through a crack in the rock.

We drive into Cascade Mountain
blizzard of changing weather. Central Washingon
on any map--And Our Faces, My Heart,
Brief as Photos. Poetry gives our time the prayers
the gods have taken away.
We don't outlive the mountain.

The television in our hearts
carries us into weather,
watching Oprah interview Michelle
as she's preparing to leave the White House,
my wife and I talk about her dress
and where it comes from. Everything I say
seems ridiculous to Karen. Oprah shows
photos of Michelle over the past eight years
and we feel like we're looking through
a family photo album: Michelle in the classroom,
working out, When did you feel the most tested?
Oprah asks. We as black women better be able to do it,
Michelle says. Sasha and Melia.
School trips. We're the happy side of the White House.

Because of the weight that the President has...
And we're dealing with people losing their houses.
We need to be substantive, but there also needs to be a little levity.
We were the joy masters.

House of the People Open the doors really wide.
Dancing. In the garden. Alma Thomas' art work.
First black woman's art. Resurrection, from 1966,
hanging in the family dining room.
Girl Scouts and their tents on White House lawn.

Eating from our china.
You know we've changed their lives forever.
Being a grown-up. This would be really hard if I was 20.
Just being straight up grown up helps.
I've been in the world. ...coming up against some stuff.
Oh you think that, I'll show you.

Fist bump between Barack and I
referred to as a terrorist fist jab,
crony of color.
She smiled only when she felt like smiling.

Blue black dress, buttoned at collar
pale green stripes across arms
goblets filled with flowers
and flowers at the flowing hem.

Let me live my life out loud
don't dial it back, don't dilute it

Melia was 7 and Sasha was 10

Two little girls trying to figure it out.

2. All of this, and grand children skiing,
me keeping calendar, them keeping score,
Sammie and Josh get the powder and clouds
Kate and Dheezus get powder and a storm.
And we start all over brown bag lunch at High Camp
a  paper cup with honey through a straw
and back on skis, out to Couloir,
narrow gulley on the mountain--
they want trails through trees, careful of tree wells
I can't get you out of there,
too dangerous, and the next day
four sisters from the liminal world
for two days, telling stories, listening,
trying to catch up. They're not from
Minnesota any more, mama.
Occupation and immersion
from both sides.
On the second day, solo with the youngest,
the one who set these days in motion
dharma girl with a camera, strong in leg
aggressive, wanting the black diamond
down steeps over and through moguls.
We do that getting strong before lunch.
Flying through the Northern Sky
she urges her skis to match
the energy she carries, driving parallel
down fall lines until she reaches
unpredictability. And then lunch
with the home-made tamales
from Maria in our backpacks.

We clean lenses from cameras,
come one, we're going into Storypath/Cuentocamino
where light changes faster than we can see,
every moment different, every moment blind
and exhausting, a chance at it on the other
side of the boundary line. No chance
of avalanche but the return
dangerous for what you might bring back,
nobody will believe you in pure image
reality dissolving in both worlds.
Who can you tell, liminal one?


This hike in snow
this time, these days on skis
wouldn't be real
without the children.
The mountain time
is all fraud without kids.
Without them it's all pretense.

The steep slowdown began
with Mom, beginning to leave us when grandkids
started arriving. Talking with God
in those early days. I'll try this:
Under two and over 80.
Walk with these ones,
I won't stop until you stop me.

The mountain school brings
its own rules. Heavenly curriculum.
from dream practice.
School, from Latin, Scole.
Leisure. You take the high road,
I'm low road wired this way early.
This road wants to enter the Faerie world
of Scottish folklore. My friend
and his wife send back music from Scotland.
To take the kids out of school,
that simple. Ski buddies for an old man.

Written with objectives with language
to sail through school boards. Teaching,
always subversive. See:
Mythology, Mountains, Literature,
History of the British Isles. Vocabulary:
Glen, Landscape, Scotland.
Mortality, Immortality, Faeries,
Celts, Piper. (Don't isolate Underworld.)
Pre-test: Listen to what the narrator says about the song,
The Bonny Banks of Loch Lomand.
Who wrote the song? Why did he write the song?
What is the high road? What is the low road?
What is the spirit world? How do you get there?
Other questions to ask (depending on your students),
How is time different in the Faerie world?
How much Faerie Time did the man spend in the Faerie world?
How much Mortal Time did he spend with the Faeries?
How had his village changed when he came back?
Can you stop listening to a song as soon as it's over?
How? How not?
Which version of the song do you prefer?
You get the idea. And practical things. On the night before the field trip:
1. pack your clothes. Check for socks, underwear, gloves, lift ticket, helmet and goggles, parka, ski pants and boots. Grandpa has your skis.
2. Pack your lunch. Include sandwich, fruit, cookies, and something for your ski partners.
3. Unit in Scotland and Travel: With your parents, look up the country of Scotland on the map. After you have found Scotland. Locate England and Ireland. Then look up the Cascade Mountains in Washington State. What do you think the differences are between stories in Scotland and stories in Washington State? What do you think might be similar between Mountain Life in the Cascades and country life in Scotland.
4. Go to each member of your family and thank them for one thing that makes them special to you. Ask them for one reason that they are happy that you are going skiing today with Grandpa and your cousins.
5. Read a chapter in your library book before you say your prayers

4. It's above zero with wind.
Before we leave
I check his clothes.
Give him my down quilt
from REI, a good move
We make it to High Camp
Snow's good but all powder
blown off exposed slopes.

One run down Northern Sky
and we're done. Zero degrees
plus wind. Let's go photograph
ice in the river. The other school,
not so good. Nouns? Verbs?
Ski into those trees. Where's the action?
Pee behind that big fir? That's right.
Pee is the action. Dog pee or yours?
Yes, your urine is a noun.
I'm going to pull the truck over here.
Take the camera. Focus on the ice.
Find something in the ice
no one has ever seen before.
Bring back a dozen images.


Temps below zero in town
for a week. Not good.
Temperature's at home read
on the minus side of zero,
but snow and cloud cover
has me thinking temps might be
warming up. Josh and I
haven't had a solo day
in two years. His twin-tipped
Rascals having to brake
that long for the youngest.
New snow in mountains
signals warmer temps?
We decide on this thought.
Park the Mothership
at Deep Forest Camp
using Little Buddy propane heater
as we dress. Our skis
carry us to the Triple
and over Big White
and we ski to High Camp
for hot chocolate.
Wind has blown any fresh snow
from our best attempt
It's too cold in wind.
Let's explore ice in the river
and see if we can find some images
with the camera.

Skiing with children destroys
abstract evil. I carry two backpacking
shovels in the mothership
for cave-digging. They come

apart. Grandchildren enjoy
caves as much as skis, almost
deciding to eat and sleep inside
before thinking about wet gloves.

Solstice light shows up
for more than two weeks
if one can escape consumerism
and one doesn't have to take

but two steps out of bounds.
I have been in the mountains.
My son lives there. Go early
stay late. Work with available

shadows. The mountain itself
clouded, or six inches of an alpine
fir protruding from ten feet of snow
on just this side of the sun.

The Mothership is zendo
dream shack, part practice,
part koan, an exercise
with insulation, a cave

for children. Spending
the night takes one to the stars
outside of time, stay warm.
Get closer to the ice crystals.


Our campfire is a single light
amongst a hundred peaks and waterfalls.
            --The Wheel Revolves

All morning looking for Rexroth on skis
in his Collected Poems from Hamill,
finding so much else,
the first rip in his mountain tent,
rain coming in, and his take
on Americans looking for passion
by taking in a movie matinee.
Alerted to the recurring dream
by a Facebook entry from Sam,
recalling his winter solstice birthday.

Dragon and Unicorn accompany Rexroth.
He carries Li Po skiing in the mountains.
Both of us, he says, like waterfalls,
and he turns his skis towards black and white water,
maneuvering swiftly over avalanche crystals,
through thickets of dwarf maples
buried in snow. The long poem
a hymn of love countering
anti-Semitism of the time.
Fully present in time, flawed and funny
in the prophetic. Anarchic and mystical.
Opposites of the other.

Lots of cabins, and year-round swimming
in rivers. Nature and contemplation.
Gathering mushrooms in his sixties,
listening for the temple bell,
thinking about his poems,
should have learned more,
should have been funnier.
One of the ones
shitting in golf holes at midnight.
The priceless letter to Williams.
And relentless on organizational men
as well as their wives.
Sympathetic to the young:

"Our substance
is whatever we feed our angel"
cross, sea, stone, flower, angel.
The poem and the poem revised.
The life and the life remembered.
The body and the dark juice of the beloved.
Walking roads, walking forests.
Day and night in both.
As long as you're living for purpose
you're not free. He calls for religious empiricism
describing all experience.

Funny and rude. Antidote
to Eliot and Pound--Rexroth responds
with a quest after the bomb.
Hymn of love, personal against
the impersonal before him,
with all of his faults superbly
placed on the page,
empirical in mystic display:
Picture of a nation gone
stark raving mad.

Keen on the young American male.
Each one knows that very soon the State
is going to take him out and
murder him very nastily.
He is inclined to withdraw from
the activities prescribed for him
in the advertising pages.

Real religion--not believed, but practiced.
Here, in the west, river swimming daily,
tramping in snow, skiing, making love,
a contemplative eliminating the appetite.


Temperature in the car
reads -6 degrees outside
but it's tropical in the car
surrounded by generations
ancestors we lost track of
addressing memory
music entering the right ear
where I'm placed in the trees
of being, the boy who is me
years and decades ago
walking the gravel road
just outside of city limits
in the North Dakota town
BB gun in hand
just past Shit Creek
and that yellow Meadowlark
on the fence post singing

This morning Karen driving
sun coming up on snow-covered
hills the purple sky behind us
me with the Merwin poems
in the passenger seat
accompanying all this
I read one line aloud
turning to the children
but happiness has a shape made of air
Karen saying, Explain that one,
wondrous invitation,
it was never owned by anyone
it comes when it will in its own time
Me trying to hang on to just this
for now it doesn't matter
without in fact getting it
or not surrounded as I am

6 January 2017


I will teach you, my townspeople,
Williams wrote, talking funeral.
So many ways to grieve in the poem.
Many ways to carry us
through this day. These stars.
So many. What the writers imagine,
listening to him, the President-elect.
Humiliation and unbelief. Our children
watching us in our worst moments,
have never seen anything like this.

Friends talk like GI's
inventing rage with language,
failing, flailing. We listen
to the Buddhists: Vengeance
is a lazy form of grief.
We listen to the Christ-woman,
Partiality, and its one-time
use in the New Testament.
And the Buddhist again,
Relief happens only
when the whole truth
comes out. My own
kinship with the Bodhisattva.

Karen and I talk about
the jeweler, our friend,
and his shields. We carry
them from our studio rooms
to the living room,
hang them again. I'll wear
the quirkiest and queerest pins, too,
all shields, and I'll not leave
the house without them.
Because of Crazy Horse
we know the subversive
as true way, the power in our shields.                  


On the mountain with children
skiing, dry winter camping
in the mothership. Intense
wonder weather.
Epiphanies of snowflakes, children.
Nothing prepares one
for the return home
six weeks after the election,
thin metal edges sharpened
still holding us to the mountain.

Jim Bodeen
from Winter Solstice, 2016--18 January 2017



Get your hands out of the cereal bag
God damn it, and show some respect.

You pick up half-smoked cigarettes
off the ground and smoke them.
You go into a dumpster behind Taco Time
for half-eaten burritos
and want to call me out
for taking three Wheaties
out of a bag with my fingers.
I admit it, what else can I do?

It's still lack of respect.

Jim Bodeen
17 January 2017

The Difficulty with the Amen


1. My mother cleaned house
on hands and knees
washing the kitchen floor
and that's the way I learned,
too, about God and cleaning house.
Severe North Dakota winters
and pastors in black contrasted
with snow in their German names.
I refused them, even as I took them in.
I sang for my friend Dee Dee Sagness
at his funeral. He wasn't yet ten
when he died after they opened his heart.
I was in the junior choir laughing at practice
ashamed by my sobs as they carried him out.

2. Luther and Kierkegaard were as natural
for one like me as baseball games
coming to Mom and I from the Philco Radio
in the kitchen during summer.
I played with baseball cards
on the living room floor
while paying attention to all
that went on with God.
I had my own skeptical take on grace.
I knew the medicine man.
I sent smoke signals.
I had a camp out back.
Even then I had the pipe.
I didn't know a single person who lived close.

3. After I came back from war
I read Works of Love. I understood.
Right away I understood. I understood
what repetition gave. I knew
fear and trembling like the back of my hand.
By then I had a son. I walked up that mountain
with my hand on his shoulder, a loving father.
I gave him up. My own son. Gave him to God.
When I told my wife she was horrified.
I told her about the black ink on the knife.
I told her about cleaning it on my shirt.
I told her about vows taken for the poem.
She demanded to see the ink-stained shirt
and called me a pretender.

4. Believe me, I've walked past my share
of pretenders. And so many people
of wonder. Word men. Men handing out
epiphanies on the street. One who called himself
Jheezus Joyce. I named my grand daughter
Dheezus. My mother used to say, Jimmy,
you've gone too far this time.
When Kierkegaard's Sermons arrived
from Pastor Ronnie, I was in my 70s.
Jheezus God, where did my life go?
Welcome to the Kierkegaard Hotel
my friend says, Lots of rooms.
Could be heaven, could be hell.
Our foolish minds are weak, willing to be drawn.

Jim Bodeen
4 January 2017


What you've done, here Ron, what you do,
with your two books, for me, is to bring him into our home.
Perhaps a second subtitle: Making Kierkegaard Familiar.
Going further, homely. Part of the furniture.
Knicked-up like the coffee table where your books rest.
Underlined and folded over corners. As old-fashioned
as he is young and uncomfortable in company.

That's him over there, sitting by himself. Not
with Dana Gioia on an airplane. Not at university.
 Not the bookstore at Holden Village, and not
in some backpacker's pack hiking the Crest Trail.
Not even the Church Library in West Seattle.
First Lutheran wants it closer. Faith
is not light as a dance, but it is heavy and hard...

the help looks like a torment, the relief like a burden--
Walking out the door after Sunday worship.
Disturbed at Starbucks with coffee cake,
interrupting Father Brown on PBS:
...there is mortal danger you will be by yourself.
Martin Luther understood through polar opposites,
repentance central to forgiveness, a requirement.

Luther in your voice clearer than in biography.
We are the offenders...God is the offended.
And this fearlessness: for we know how to rejoice
in sadness, and mourn in happiness. You
are a weaver, Ron Marshall, your fabric tight.
This is rich work, and you're the village pastor,
wily, and vigilant. Endure rejection. Like Christ.

This sentence, pure Ron Marshall, my favorite:
Can we believe in him for who he is,
rather than for what he does? Here you surface
in your own pure voice, as an author must.
Here is the question that validates.
Who he is cuts both ways.
Doesn't what he does do the same?

Atonement means that you step aside
and that he takes your place. I didn't
learn that from Kierkegaard, I got it
from a country church in North Dakota
as a child before I was ten. You set the table
for us in each of these 27 sermons.
That God may bless us rather than condemn us.

This is a breath of fresh air. 'Common bread,
heavenly bread.' Come to the altar today.
This is a sit-down dinner I can attend.
Dana Gioia's poem witnessing to refusal is framed in our kitchen.
Your footnotes filed as recipe cards.
You are the third voice denying yourself,
giving thanks for everything, never doubting God.

Jim Bodeen
4 January 2017



            --for Zev Shanken

My Jewish friend asks, What's the difference
between a joke and a poem? Rabbi Joshua says,
A poem is a joke that needs no punchline.
Rabbi Naomi says, A poem is a joke
with a different punchline each time--
it's silent. Pastor says,
The stickers only stick if they mean something.
These Jews, see. Christians have Flannery O'Connor
and Hazel Motes, but can't use them.
Too dark for polite conversation.
Haze starts The Church of Christ without Christ,
says if you want to get ahead in religion,
you gotta stay sweet. My old pastor
feels bad that he feels so bad.
Christians feel guilty about their guilt.
Christ is a stumbling block for believers
who would rather it be of no consequence.
Rabbi Rebecca says, You wish your uncle
knew jokes; you wish your grandfather knew poems.
Christians wish there was more to them
than Ole and Lena. But they don't want
Hazel Motes. Right, and what to do
with bumper stickers and guns.
The trouble with Christians
is they can't laugh, don't know jokes.
Jewish writers have the rabbi.
It's ok for Jews to be poets.
Luther was funny. Only because
he was constipated with loud farts.
He had problems with the Jews.
Not funny. No.
No Christian poets? Only Catholic ones.
No protestants? The odd thief
and the unbalanced way.
My Jewish friend goes to dinner
with his wife, talks over her while she's talking.
You're just like Donald Trump! she says.
Stop the car, he says, gets out, and walks home.
Christians don't do those things?
Christians in pews voted for Donald Trump.
Pastors have or half their tears,
halving their laughter, sweep, sweep.

Jim Bodeen
10 January 2017



On skis, watching their snow lines
falling, each of them with their own dance
and way forward, knowing they've found this
with no language. Their rhythm
born from their eyes and pursuit of the other.
No one has told them, Set your edge, release your edge.
Roll your ankles means nothing.
Find a steeper line and down up down
doesn't sound like song to me. Only this,
Have fun. How can you ski
if you're not singing? Find the music.
Turn and go is what we do. Over
and over. Turn and go. Children
seeking bumps and trails through trees.

Jim Bodeen
11 January 2017



We went out of bounds twice
East then West, a quick duck
under the rope lifting it with a ski pole
as our skis slid into the pristine.
Still in solstice light, side swipe
of altered space cast shadows
of alpine trees. We had come
for these shade-lanes with our tiny
cameras, eyes behind
solar lenses aiding distortion.
Our hands, clumsy in gloves,
could only pretend to compose.
Wind caused flurries of crystal
storm and clouds hid the sun
at will. We gave ourselves
time to be this blind,
unmindful of shutter speed
and focus, recording light
we only guessed at,
two steps into wild.

Jim Bodeen
31 December 2016


She reads to her husband in the living room
of Emmett Till, and I hear of it
when his poem arrives in the mail.
Where we live, Emmett Till
is a household name, but details
of his long night before the hanging
get murky. The poem in my mailbox also
praises a Danish teacher for his quiet
resistance and courage. So much
has been lost we thought we had won.
Strange fruit hanging from poplar trees,
for crows to pluck, Billie's song.
Reading aloud is a Victorian rite
freezing our accounts and computers.

Jim Bodeen
24 December 2016



Every time Karen walks into a room.

Jim Bodeen
November-December-January, 2016-2017

In and Out of Notebooks


in and out of notebooks
the day unfolding in paper
leaves fallen ones bound
in and out in and out
with no purpose
and then with purpose equally
at odds a kind of windlessness
no purpose being
where words found
bring with them something
no news can carry
but what we come for
I know this has nothing
but everything but by God
it's hard it is and it isn't
courage it's outside
of the dreaming known
to go there
never mind to get there

Jim Bodeen
5 January 2017

I settle on a letter
a foundation
a kind of platform
the kind of thing
one does leaving
the office to those
left behind oh yes

a letter to a writer
of columns relatively
famous with a father
who asked for no quarter
other than learn a language
and a brother on a boat
this woman speaks to me
and I want to say thanks
with all that can be mustered
she lives in the city of politicians
and willfulness and this is all
what I give myself to
writing her trying for nothing
more giving it my all
I tell her what
I found there over time

Jim Bodeen
5 January 2017


Temperature in the car
reads -6 degrees outside
but it's tropical inside
surrounded by generations
ancestors we lost track of
addressing memory
music entering the right ear
where I'm placed in the trees
of being, the boy who is me
years and decades ago
walking the gravel road
just outside of city limits
in the North Dakota town
BB gun in hand
just past Shit Creek
and that yellow Meadowlark
on the fence post singing

This morning Karen driving
sun coming up on snow-covered
hills the purple sky behind us
me with the Merwin poems
in the passenger seat
accompanying all this
I read one line aloud
turning to the children
but happiness has a shape made of air
Karen saying, Explain that one,
wondrous invitation,
it was never owned by anyone
it comes when it will in its own time
Me trying to hang on to just this
for now it doesn't matter
without in fact getting it
or not surrounded as I am

Jim Bodeen
6 January 2017

Wang Wei As A Form of Foreshadowing


God isn't through with me yet
we say in Recovery.
My friends send poems.
My defense shield has failed.
19 Ways of Looking at Wang Wei,
indeed, Eliot Weinberger.
I've just been presented
with 18 ways by God to laugh.
Don't you dare, I say,
as he brings mother
into the room
sitting her before me.

Jim Bodeen
16 November 2016


So many possibilities for distraction
following everyone I can.

Jim Bodeen
30 November 2016

Winter Shelter Confrontation


No, I ain't sleeping
next to no white man

They snore and fart

He waves away the room,

Ah, I'm only kidding

Jim Bodeen
2 January 2017

Sunshine After Solstice


Not by the pair, but singles.
Singles and socks, too much to keep straight.
But we had it all, grandchildren weightless
on skis in powder so light
the hold on gravity is gone.
The way out mirrors mountain
descent. Windshield fogged
like our goggles, all of us
giggling, windshield iced
forcing wipers to close hard
in a smaller arc. The cave
is here, warmed by insulation
from frozen water, bounty
of blankets wrapping our
falling selves in dream field.

Jim Bodeen
2 January 2016 


            --for Gretchen, Megan, Suzy, Kirsten

He points his ski pole down the mountain.
That's the way down, but this is the fall line.
Two different paths. Water finds
the fall line. So do your skis.
Release the edges and let them find it;
when they do, let your body follow,
bend into your knees, settle in,
complete your turn. That's the dance,
over and over. A simple
and effortless down up down.
On this snow there is only this snow
and this sky. This run you're riding,
Northern Sky, turns us
liminally, eliminating time.

Jim Bodeen
29 December 2016