(Reading a poem, going for a drive in the imagination, riding the wave of memory)
Light shadows, harsh light, as if from some unknown stage
Unusual light, never seen before, ghostly and ghastly
Spelling out some oracle that cannot be deciphered
No matter how hard we try
How hard we peer through the puzzling texture around us, in the sky and on the ground
Shroud or cover, mist or veil, fog or fine snow
In between-ness of Nature’s postures
Twilight of human reasoning and endurance.
The ice cave:
Mother of all ice, gaping mouth of Mystery and Magic
Luring the passer-by, occasional skier or hiker,
Picnicking on dreams and food for the soul
The white landscape as a conversation with our loneliness
Or, it is, rather, some new frontier for life to experiment with? The moving (conquering) line of life over death? Of cheerfulness over brooding? Of creativity over defeat? Of wonder over dullness?
A white desert or a blank page?
The surface of the glacier:
Icy material soft to the eye, harsh to the hand
Trap ensnaring human curiosity
Lure of the unreachable
To touch is to die
To tread is to disappear
Safe from a distance
Noli me tangere.
The observer overlooking in the distance, poised between awe and fear.
Snow free mountains, green shades as harbingers of Spring
Summer landscape calling from another distance yet—temporal and spatial.
Human and natural irony:
A snow–deprived winter yields ski slopes fun galore mid-April
Freezing temperatures have kept the white gold in check
Spring light revealing folds and secrets never fathomed or even imagined before.
A few first comers, getting to know the place and the feel of the place
The lay of the land and the land lying, spreading in the distance, challenging human scopes—visual and others.
Little dots in the sky, suspension points or question marks?
Grammar of the sky, vocabulary spelled out by the clouds.
On the white slopes:
Tiny dark dots
Three … four skiers,
One hesitant to tug along, but carried away by the thrill
At least, that is what we imagine, gazing at them, marveling at their boldness and sense of precision
Their grace and concision
As they sketch new lines on the white page of snow
Some calligraphy, anew;
Bold moves and curves
Sharp twists and turns.
And suddenly they disappear in the distance.
And so do we, eventually.