Between the Waters

Quiet

By: EarlB, 6:03 PM GMT on April 22, 2009

There are no words to describe the largeness of the
quiet here, there just aren't words:



It snowed again today,
That may be insignificant
In a place already white.

It was quiet again today,
That is never insignificant
Where ever you are.

You may not know my silence,
It is the quiet of
A hundred miles.
A hundred miles of quiet
In which a falling snowflake
Can be heard
As it floats by,
So quietly into the white.

It snowed again today.

****************************

In a cold, day's time,
Silently, the snow has gone.
Sublime departure.

Updated: 1:18 PM GMT on July 19, 2009

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Desert Sand

By: EarlB, 5:05 PM GMT on April 14, 2009

I walked the mile or so to my workplace yesterday in a "Condition
Alpha" storm, walking WITH the wind, mind you, and downhill, all the
way ("Alpha" is a storm warning with winds up to 30 mph). With an air
temperature of 6 degrees F, anyone who isn't prepared would certainly
wish that they had stayed closer to home.

I was bundled: insulated snow pants, insulated parka, insulated hat,
scarf, polartec 200 gloves (sorry for the jargon). With my parka hood
up and fastened at my chin, I was toasty. But, as I walked, the cold
shivved in, I felt the little knives of cold slipping between seams of
my armor.

Wind-blown snow was quickly forming two-foot-deep drifts across the road,
the blowing snow was cutting the exposed portion of my face like sand
in a dust storm. All sounds were made mute by the wind, and as I
walked on, I thought of the hunters who were on the ice and how they
were enduring this storm. They were in the open with no oasis of warmth
a short way away as I had waiting for me, no taxi to carry them into the
the wind, and safely home.

At some time, we all have had these broken-glass grains of sand blow
through our lives, and we hope for a resting place that is safe from the wind.

Updated: 5:12 PM GMT on April 14, 2009

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Cutting Edges

By: EarlB, 1:37 PM GMT on April 05, 2009

Icy needles
Stabbing at the skin,
Razor winds
Cutting through
Layer upon layer,
Black piercing white,
White slashing black:
It's winter,
And clouds only
Confuse us with their
Winter-knife soft edges.

Updated: 1:42 PM GMT on April 05, 2009

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