We ran in the fresh snow last night. It was cold and potentially dangerous, a truth unceremoniously marked by an encounter with the local emergency services at work in the dark, chill below the trails.

pow’dree treads in i’see dark.
en frozen. blust’ring. cold. nay, stark
thern’winds whorl, rustle, haunt thas’night.
four, boundless, b’yond trails chill blight.

tha’sun were set, tho hints re’maned
magenta skies in west’ern waned
walk’d peoples and der’hounds thru snow
we past dem. wav’d. en on weed go.

where fresh fel’n snow obscures ern’root
leap’t o’er berms forged a for’gone foot.
tho, oft thru past we runners been
wern’t weer cool soles upon thas’seen.

resolute shunn’d eer’even pace
skiffs weer leapt oer’en shad’wee lace
well thru branches blinkt urgent reds
signals marking emerg’nt dreads

where oer thar creek spans trestle’d path
uniforms climb out tha’natured wrath
en’wen weed shine er probing lights
peekt down tward on griz’illed sights

silence. chill. in’gulfed we four souls.
onward ran, tho er hearts weer holes
marked hold’en to thas thing below
som’one fell, froze, succumb’d by snow.

thern’winds whorl, rustle, haunt thas’night.
four, boundless, b’yond trails chill blight.
digits numb’d weed end our jaunting,
frozen. blust’ring. cold. nay, haunting.

– bardo

I am not a poet, but a friend has inspired me to read more of it and think more critically about its place in the constellation of my creative pursuits. Occasionally, I’d like to post a poem here when inspiration strikes.