Chipman Hill

Chipman Hill
isn’t moving an inch today, not budging

a minisecond of its coordinates
nor a mite of its height, it stands

transfixed in its three axes:
the paragon of stasis.


                        * * *

I’ve insulated myself without stint
in polyester, feathers, wool and Velcro

but I leave my face open.
My face likes it naked.

(Trying as always
to leave the rest of me behind,

but I’m slow, 
I walk with poles.)

So cold when I breathe it in
the hairs in my nostrils go whizzy.


                        * * *


I’m following in the bootprints
of those who have come before

on patterned treads,
their artifacts.

A deer in high heels on the other hand
knew an easy contour to traverse,

and one rabbit many times 
or many rabbits once 

have trampled the pure white snow
beyond recognition.


                        * * *


Away from all this, by itself 
what looks like scribbling

by a bored child with a sharp pencil
who is determined to fill the page,

or a ganglion of dental floss,
or a manic train of thought,

or a microscopic nothing,
which is nevertheless something,

baffled, panicked for its life
fiercely wishing, empirically believing 

in every all directions back again,
now dead in the web of its weaving.


                        * * *

Stop moving. Silence everywhere
far as the eye can see, like the snow.

But stay and listen awhile. Listen to it.
There’s only space enough here

for the silence and me.

Somewhere a tree cracks its knuckles.


                        * * *

Up a tilted curve to the ridge
an icy wind hits my face like a snowball.

pushes me to a stagger.
I turn to face its blow.

The basso profondo roars
an aria of low howling vowels, 

soaring to siren screeches.
We go at it face to face, we spar.

I pretend I’m beaten but nevertheless
stoutly pursue my course upward.