It’s getting late in the season for this, even
At this altitude, but there’s a bright thickness
Covering the shorter grasses and smaller stones,
A weight of wind-blown coats bending branches,
And a new white dazzle filling the sunny air.
Not another human within walking distance,
At least not within a stroll from here. The world,
However posted with signs and wonders, says thus
Nothing much at the moment, nothing substantial,
Although nothing much is much more beautiful,
More detailed than nothing, which is why, maybe,
Nothing craves it all, embraces every shift of light,
Loves it madly, drawing out every falling detail,
Every sun-caught cloud, every flake of snow.
The loneliness of nothing is the only thing
Explaining why there’s nothing much at all.
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