Saving the Appearances

On the way I see
the trees are glazed.
I open my mouth and breathe
to show them my vapor.

I did it to speak
the language of ice
or the language of white,
I don't have to know.

On the path, the prints
of animal feet.
A metrics of mammals
scanned by the snow.

Where being and being
seen coincide,
often the world
is cold.

Copyright © 2004 Liz Waldner All rights reserved
from Saving the Appearances
Ahsahta Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission