Sky Ghosts
The drifts move their white weight
as if the heaps themselves
were snowplows.
Again the sky dumps afterthoughts,
the packed mounds are remodeled
under new wind-plantings.
When the land is a white-out,
perception seeks color,
every dot of pigmentation
creates a brilliant question mark
on a blank field.
There are freely moving ghosts
in the swirling air.
I listen to the roof creaking,
as they land
looking for their sky-blue eye.
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