No terminal moraine


Dream I'm dead, vacuuming 

my head in cold rain,


enough to redact change,

climate cooled, restored


to sane. Gone north, fast 

at night, a better place,


hope synched, bleak times 

behind. No terminal moraine, 


only cairns,  a jagged line, 

willing martyrs, half-iced,


half-lithe. The denouement — 

sleet turned blizzard, stupas


on my grave, whirled white,

snow sticking, gaining height.

                              Timothy Pilgrim