your mom has three dogs.

constituent 4

the frigid shutter clicks of my camera
(stolen from my brother back in the fifth grade)
ring out into the relentless, breathless air.
the knuckles on my weak hands blanch a ghostly wan.

a rusty bucket, not of much acknowledged purpose,
hangs still against the red crackling paint of the old outbuilding.
the crystalline snow beneath my feet pillows deeper into the ground as i step
closer to the edge of organized scenery.

eerie might be the right word?.
quite funny to explain a state of being with a solitary appellation.
a comfortable eerie settlement in time,

(free from discomposure)
this is where i am serene.
the air bites through to the bottom of my lungs and i feel clear euphoria.
opalescent skies breathe upon my still frame.

behind this fabricated fringe of now lays the hushed sounds of hate,
the subdued echoes of desperation, weariness, loathe.
quick! quick! close your eyes, hold your breath.
but does the carry on of others have to permeate the moment of my (current)?
should it in fact stay a reverberation of the (former)?

there is a certain asceticism in the atoms of snow