Reality/New Poem (Rough First Draft)
I tread softly, slowly, for the rest of the village
is sleeping and new snow crackles like chipped glass
when moved through too quickly.
I follow the rough path I made yesterday,
down to the fjord. Snow heaps over the top
of my boots, soaks through my jeans and thermals.
Cold slips under my skin like a secret.
I watch mist moving down from the mountains,
and pinch the thin skin on the underside
of my forearm. I lick the inside of my lips.
I can taste cinnamon. Yes, it’s all still real.
The mist quietly takes Oslo, advances
across the shifting water. I rub my dry hands
together, make the maps on my palms meet.
I take out the letter I received, the first tangible
thing from home. I read and re-read the address
marked on the front, while the mist breaks the shore,
touches me, and passes on.