Cwm
One word, it doesn’t matter which, can be the pebble that sets off an avalanche. Careful! We could be buried until spring, limbs tangled under the snowy quilt.
One syllable older than language can shock the snow awake, recollecting its true nature: to flow, to flood.
Listen: the brass bell fastened to the neck of a sheep has some other sheep’s tooth for a clapper. These noises we make for each other & through each other, mouth against throat, broadcast our position at every trembling step.
Cwm (pronounded “koom”) is a cirque. Thought I’d try my hand at a love poem for once. Not being in any romantic entanglement actually makes it easier, I think. Hard to achieve the necessary aesthetic distance otherwise.
Dave Bonta
SourceLicence:CC BY-SA 4.0