Insensible

Insensible it was
to look you up,
to find the flame of your name
in the small local paper,
a society of words, words, words,
and your photo on that page;
the happy refined living that has come,
the easy world of polish and praise
that moved toward you
as you turned its way.

I think of other things,
but now and then, of you,
especially in this December plane
high, high, so implausibly high
above the rise and fall of the
white parceled plain.
Thirty thousand feet,
the pilot interrupts, to say.
Yet even from this height,
all beneath is clear, articulate,
as the woven linen of this page.

So I think of you, as I did then,
the way you moved through snow,
or just above,
your skis leaping to the
changing arc of your hips
tracking the perfect curve
of a snow-dressed then.
The white dust in the light
swirled in your passing.
A nimbus, now, without an angel.

Through the small divide
of plexiglass,
I lean into the winter wind,
search the shimmering hills until
I find you
there,
down there,
out there,
some where in all the white;
by time, by distance
made small,
infinitesimal,
but true as the last black spec
that marks this page.

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