Winter’s Event

the pores of air slowly close
around wet gifts, sphere-wild walls wrapping
those jewelsome pools
in skin soft and glinting; falling
evening sky,
a grey caress off domes
that drain its face of pain

nowhere visible, rocks hide,
beneathing their solid backs
below grassy hair;
they catch in handsome bowls
those liquid breaths, offerings of wizardry
cut windsome from distant stars

all on earth saturates
in silver soaking . . .

what is this that takes us
piece after piece dropping this sense
of erasure’s going,
belonging to only secret tellings
as heaven unlatches its floodgates?

atmosphere blinks,
charged by angels’ pulses,
sometimes dark, but often light,
chemicals both yours and mine,
of sky
dreaming themselves as powdered pictures
which blend between eyes and eyes
as awe overflows the world

all on earth subdues . . .

but what would winter be
without flesh damp with other kinds
of blood,
beating us to sacred songs?

into what space or speech
would the elements swim,
if it were not
for lips burst wide open
to spin and dip in sudden tastes
of seeping things?

then sometimes (so rare): a


thickly silky,
coming as wings from Elsewhere

and there the unnameable
calls itself to presence,
a door that opens
like bloomfresh, a surprising smile
whose grace sweeps down the dusty treasures
so long guarded by shadows
and loved by webs
to infuse petalled suns into lonely spaces,
holy unknowns, wholly known yet
inaccessible once, now so much groomed
to grow

all on earth falls
in liquid crumbling . . .

and we, tongues speechless,
are left staring
at streams together, watered
at the mutinous edge
where memory spills us back again
into happening’s pure event


© J. Celan Smith