A Baker's Snowzen

Mountain of chilled flour
packed hard underneath
these boots. I know no
longer meaning of
'beauty' for nothing,
nothing filtered
by mine cornea speaks
of 'ugliness.'

The world is raw and
pure, here beneath the
sky, exploding bakers'
powder onto
all.

Wire pulled taut,
straight, rigid
thin Sharpie ® line
spanning across, a
road built on sky,
highway of  snowflake
dreams. Chefs dancing
in the glory of divine

gift, no lack of flour
for the kitchens, no
sticky hands and half-
hearted loaves. This
present, these dreams


Are divine, but work
there is to be done
today, before my fingers
let loose their valiant
resistance, dropping,
like more frigid, feather
flour onto this
mountain of chills.