Perhaps merely the idea of whiteness draws us,
the way the white lines, the fissures of ice,
the made structure itself disappears inside
the silent depths. Or perhaps the way the wind
dies down to a muffled growl as we slip inside
the white skin of bear, the belly of the moon.
Or the way we are left then with only language,
our voices heard in the white dome of the cosmos,
our stories flickering in the fire; left with merely
these shadows written on the walls of snow.
Here, the trick of permanence. There, the illusion
of stilled water, the gift of holding river and storm
quiet in the rough texture of our hands. No day
now. No night. The vast turquoise sky not changing
to a black mask pricked with eyes. Out of the flames
gods come, spirits, ghosts bearing visions and
old battles. Out of the white nothing, we create
the living light, the universe of blood, a new world.