Imprints

The day is like a camel waking with
the moon still on display, the few rays
of sunshine carried on trays down spiral
staircases intimated in winter mists. A
watch is attached to a bloody wrist every
Christmas day, I have been for years trying
to find footprints in a an hourglass filled with
snow. Disparate snowflakes rest on boughs,
snow is the alarm of the clock of the trees
being announcing winters arrival and the familiar
pull of history's catheter as sources are gathered.
old modes dripped. I see a pair of antlers trapped
in ice, holding but not gripping the sun, can hands
from a cross reach a bloody watch hung between
the sun and moon, to correct the time?-he left
hand-prints in clouds to high to reach misty staircases,
perhaps flakes are his frozen tears. I arrive home as
solstice nears, a blackbird has left imprints on an old
suitcase packed with snow in a garden that hints at the
calm of a millennium all cried out.