To Rilke

I.

Though none hold you holy,

I think you are sacred,

Snow.

Stopped in my tracks

(For now they appear),

You are no blanket,

But life's unveiling:

A step entails commitment's crackle,

A sin against silence,
Yet standing still invites

The fate of statues.

Whiteness of life, so

Silently insistent:

A whispered demand for your own

Desecration.

II.

Yet soon you are mended,

And we are forgotten in your fabric.

Then all of that anxiety--

Where to go? What to do?--

Anxiety over how best to imprint ourselves

Is lost in the layers,

And all of our questions are answered

With a billion blind ellipses.

God,

Still we fear

That you will cease

To fall.