Ocean of Snow

Without being at home, with many things to do, but at a desk without access to the Internet, and no books or magazines, there was nothing to do but write. So I wrote a short poem about yesterday's moment in the field.

Ocean of Snow

Wind blows a field
of white waves,
lighter than salt.
Flecks melt into my eyes
as I lean against a tree,
mammoth rivulets of bark,
and watch black branches
scrawling waving calligraphies
on the squalls.

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Now I think it 'cut up' prose, really. And yet when I format it in paragraph form it doesn't quite work. It's neither, then. Which is why I call what I do prosepoetry.