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Percée

La récompense d’une longue montée, quand le soleil perce quelques minutes la grisaille des nuages.

De glace

Parfois, je rêve de m’endormir, captif d’une prison de glace. Ne plus rien ressentir que le froid qui étourdit. Fermer les yeux, et rêver pour l’éternité. Puis un jour, me réveiller, loin de moi, peut-être un autre devenu. Samsara.

Hommage à Doug

Hommage à D. G. Jones, décédé le 6 mars 2016.

Using up the whole page

it is the slow death of the snow
when it thaws and it freezes
that is hard

but it is like turning
the news off
one discovers the trees in the night
bare, and the hillside
— what are they doing there
doing nothing

one stands in the halflight of the snow
having stepped out of the plot
the prime directive, the problems
of the Enterprise, of the aliens
noting the planet

as Monsieur Virilio says
Je pense parce que je pèse

or as the Norman English might have said

          when I ponder I think

I must weigh on the snow, on the globe
but I suppose it’s a small thought

— as odd to call it a thought as to call
the fine, fine snow beginning to fall
a meditation — or the sound of crows in the dark
a eureka — it is the answer
to a rhetorical question, why in the world
as one says, are we here: croaks
among trees, between a thaw and a freezing

the answer a mystery, meaning
don’t know
except here we are, and now
we’ve been introduced — which helps
with total strangers

Jones, D. G. « Wild Asterisks in Cloud ». Empyreal Press, Montréal, 1997, 135 pages.