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