Snow Day

With my child's mind, I witnessed a world
encased in ice - I ached in the sun's death,
split, sundered into smoky skies
and breathless-cold beyond belief.
ash white are the remnants of shattered glass-light,
falling ever falling...
resplendent plumage of the paradise bird -
I cried, cried for the frozen sun,
and the swirling devils of wind
brusquely bullying it about,
and each word the winter swallowed



Today, I discovered a bit more about Dada I never learned before, and gained an appreciation of the chaotic formlessness that was, in its own way, a form. I skimmed along the lives of Marcel Duchamp, Hannah Hoch, and Hans Arp, and opened my eyes unto the avant-garde of the post-world war one European art, and the rejection of everything formal.
I also read about Donald Hall, and found out he was the husband of Jane Kenyan (I did not know who her husband was). A lot more things make sense now.
I still had to work, as I work from the warm, cozy cove of my room, but the snowfall outside was beautiful all day long, and magicked the day speedily past.