From woodpile to the house
a scroll of arabesques in snow
ends maybe twenty feet
from an empty pile of pallets
and the steel stake against which
the first log had been set

The trail ends just there at that
cupped crater which marks the spot
a squirrel beneath a starlit sky
had stopped and sat

Between that hollow and the house
untroubled snow lies pristine as the
road less traveled —untroubled as
the road untraveled— unused, sinless,
innocent, untrod. Unknown
as the road ahead of anyone who,
as if startled from a stupor says,
then turns and leaves a tale undone
marked by nada and a new sinuous
signature in snow

by Jim Culleny
winter, 2009


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