White Sound

Lying on the brink

of my Jungian picture show,

I drifted back towards

consciousness--

to the sound

of a jet’s surging,

rhythmic dissonance

across the New Mexico skyscape.

Child memories

attach themselves

to these wisps

evoking pictures

of my father

crunching across

frigid snow landscapes

on bone-cold Alberta nights:

Crunch,

forward surge, 

crunch.

forward surge, crunch—

that muffled certainty

of movement

as I lay snuggled

between warm flannel sheets.

Kat 
2008©