Blizzard

By Katie Kingston

Snow comes at me

an alphabet of white letters.

My feet sink into drifts

and my cheeks burn

with the insatiable.

Everywhere this pristine monologue,

and that ridge, like a white slate

waiting for the horses

of my childhood. I am riding

into a white forest on a white

stallion. The deer’s white tail

clears the fence, fawn

slips under, white fur, ermine, wolf.

White shapes cross snow.

When wind lisps over the range

you can’t stop assonance

from prancing around itself,

a field of vowels gone mad.

If you forgot your pen,

all you can do is listen.