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.