The Avalanche
by Theodora Goss

It occurs to me that you resemble
a beautiful avalanche. So far,
you have toppled my pine trees,
buried my villages, brought down
all the telephone wires. You leave
a trail of pristine destruction
wherever you go.

And I can only stand here,
watching white drifts of snow
cover this mountain like the feathers
of an egret perched on its peak,
while a slab of snowpack slides
down the path with a sound like giants
grinding bones between their molars —
waiting, with fear and admiration,
for the moment I too will be buried,
my mouth filled with light,
in a kind of cold radiance.

(The image is Simplon Pass: Avalanche Track by John Singer Sargent.)