The corridors of our labyrinth are all
downward spirals, white on white.
We inscribe the same patterns in light
powder or hard blue ice. Under tall
pines we glide, weightless & dumb, small
almost imaginary beings. No rest at night,
we dream this same white dream. Who can fight
the snow? who choses where to fall?
To repeat oneself forever, up & down,
is purgatory, but to love it, to accept
this white puzzle of snow & tilted space...
In such a maze who can accept or reject?
Its all the same: mountain, plain, country, town.
We would be no freer in any other place.
|photo at top:
in the "Mine Dumps"
on Aspen Mtn,
photo © Burnham Arndt
|All contents of this web site
© Lito Tejada-Flores unless otherwise credited.