Seems I’d be happier digging in the dirt next to a hut in some remote corner of Canada than here with my iMac. Not that I have an iMac, but if I did, I’m sure I’d like it a whole lot. The moments I live now seem like photocopies of originals. Maybe I’m really not all that better off than the underprivileged.

The snow paints a picture of a place that used to be my backyard, but which is now a winter wonderland. I could write a song about that on my iMac. Nope, I fooled you. I don’t have an iMac. And who would ever write a song called Winter Wonderland?

Snow is a silent reminder that my life is more than what I have on my shelf. I crane my neck again and smell the ancient, hollow, back-of-the-throat smell of cold. My shoes squeak under the clean blanched flakes. Magic. The sun doesn’t play fair. I’m left to seek refuge in the back of a mitten. Drops of water stuck to wool. Stringy. These things are real. A reality further from my existence than is comfortable.

I’m immersed in a poetic riot. It isn’t safe, and for this reason am I aware of my own transient humanity- my being here and now as the world I know hurtles itself through space and time. It’s a wonder I don’t have motion sickness right now. It’s a wonder my life isn’t inadvertently smeared out under a rush of galaxies. Am I only the air being breathed by some hugely ambivalent force? Am I merely a fleck among others? What assurance do I have that the light that blinds me is benevolent? Will I disappear if somebody else wakes up from this dream? Am I in a moment of blinking existence, or has this moment been happening forever?

Nights aren’t usually so analytical. There’s a desperate hope, a yearning doubt here. I shiver and pull at the wet strings of mittens. If I head back inside, I’ll be able to put aside my questions. I’ll be able to forget the sugar plum fairy dancing in the galactic expanse. But I don’t. I stay in wonderland. I let the questions wash over me. There are too many. They’re too fast. I choke on doubt and wonder. It’s a hard pill to swallow, the realization of one’s puny lordship. Perhaps my temporary happiness is a distraction from the picture show. It seems there are heavier things to consider than I’m used to. The stuff of angels is floating roaring past me, and I’ve been too preoccupied with boredom to take notice.

A rude and naked world, stripped of whiteout and quick fixes. As is. A peeling, blemished, holy world. The snows fall.

It burrows its way past my blinders. Cold water in my face. Wake up. It’s better than I’ve guessed. What I saw as lines of poetry was only a table of contents. Is my life the title page?