Nonsense Poem, No. 2

Your snow is not my snow. Mine’s

in the courtyard. Early this morning,

I pushed open the door

and went out, the snow

no blank sheet, but tracked

with dog prints—freehand

brushstrokes on snowscape. The dog

had his own intentions,

but I saw a mountain,

and water—Emei Shan,

the river Min,

clouds and mist curved and wreathed,

a beauty rinsing silk.

Far-fetched, oh yes.

I’d even say a philosophy

in snow; neither Kant’s

pure reason, nor Kierkegaard’s existentialism,

but a doctrine of departures. You know

the moment: eyes fix wide on something,

then silently it fades. Less than an hour

I’ve stood by the door, and already

half the dark earth’s showing through.

Things return from whence they came.

Maybe my snow is not snow at all,

but only disappearance, and its fact.