Unfinished within his kingdom

What I Wait For

The snow quiets everything. Innocence, like a blanket,
forgives the harsh lines that sing in concertina a severe
melody along the jagged edges of a thin life. It is what
I wait for. A miraculous absolution. Imagine God’s pockets
full of snow and holes in the pockets as he walks empty
plottages and back streets yet unfinished within his kingdom
of chrysalence and light. He is unaware of this. His mind
elsewhere as usual. Far below the Devil makes his black
tracks laid out in misconfused directions to throw off animal,
plant, man. The Devil hates being followed. He’d rather not
be bothered. Together they have much in common. Both the
same red wine, chicken perfect from the bone, the savory
dessert of evening kisses that come when crickets oil the duskset
and stars become the endless oracle they were meant to be.

Snow is the white flag of truce and surrender. It is the morning that promises and the afternoon that realizes. I can hear it breathe and hold its breath as torchlamps rake the tree bottoms searching for what has failed to remain before it arrived. I turn my head upward. There is a rustling behind the blinds of the sky. Omnipotence is a restlessness unequalled, a persistent path of worry worn down one eternity at a time. God made the Devil to keep him company, a chessmate to wile away the moves and strategies every manner of weather might play on us. Whatever might be lost is kept now exactly where it was. Nothing and no one can take it. Snow is the pale redeemer. Snow and the Devil, two sons of the same God. Paper and fire, the virgin impassioned, a bright blood made whole. It is what I wait for. A miracle of red pockets and white holes.

Joseph Gallo
December 3, 2005