Douglas Lawder Poet Classicism

Summer Snow

Forever, comes to mind and peaks where the snow stays.
                                                                              James Galvin

From the mountain that seemed to rise straight up
at the end of the city street´s racket, its heat
and black- laced carbon, a wedge of snow
lodged in a ravine:

White as a skull chunk, but,
as the right clock might
--giving the wrong time--white
as this morning´ milk.

And then, this evening, from our bedroom window,
I swear, you could see it whitely pulsing,
still holding all the day´s light in
--would not give it up--
white as a bleached brain
scrubbed of all thought,
of what this white paper might be
but for being marred by thought.

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