The snowshoe dreams a frozen lake
as the mind dreams thought—
pulled inside out, a mitten drying
next to a campfire. You’ve crossed the ice,
a dim line of reason: turning, turning
and doubling back. Finding your way,
losing it. Birch bear witness,
arms thrown up. the snowshoe dreams
a quiet mind where breaking trail
leaves no mark, a sharpened cold as dusk
drifts in, woodsmoke over the lake.
You draw your knees up to your chest,
Hold yourself as night holds day.
The final light leaks out. It leaves
its pink and gentleness on the snow
you’ve come across: the broken surface
thinking leaves. The endless criss-crossed tracks.
~ from The Dream World (McClelland and Stewart, 2008)
