Eternity is the absence
Of color: so notes the snow-blind
Mind. Staring into winter’s depth
From the shelter of my chair,
The light turns after a time

To darkness; the former substance
Of my metaphysics dissolves
Before my failing eyes. Soon,
My sophistries warmed by the fire,
I will again entertain Kant
And Dostoevsky, who return

With the pleasant evenings. We talk,
On the page, of inquisitors
And imperatives, of our God
And the arguments for faith.
This frozen bleakness, empty

Even of the echo of man,
Is unmoved. No philosophies
Are constructed here. All sense,
Turned inward, finds itself wanting
And looks again to the plain
That once bore fruit. Nothing

Is born. Whatever is not yet
Dying must savor that small
Concession from time. Companions
Of earlier centuries, please
Forgive the world into which

You are welcomed. Departed friends,
Here is a desolate mind
That conforms to its age. Braving
The icy chill, I have not found
The God whose reason directs
Its hobbled flow, its vacancies

That fill with ice. Here I confess
My nescience of the divine.
I stare as winter widens.


Cody Simpson is a lifelong resident of southeast Missouri.  His work has previously appeared in The Cape Rock and The Bees Are Dead, among other venues.

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