Snow is supposed to be in the cold. Ash is supposed to be in the past. Snowis supposed to be on earth; ash, scattering in the wind. Ash is supposed to bethe snow of fire, enemy of winter’s flowers. And winter is supposed to takeplace on the earth between the fall and spring. It is not supposed to takeplace on the moon. But when it is winter on the moon, when you are writinga poem in it, taking care to sweep it free of ash and snow, to cut down anyspruces that spring up in the way, disposing also of wind and junipers andsummer sounds, you will now and then look up and see a cloudy planetfloating in the sky. It’s about the size of your fist at arm’s length. Dustycontinents cartwheel into view, then oceans serenely take their place. Theremust be people taking a subway. There must be mornings and situations, agirl walking her bicycle across the street, a graduate student in prayer on thefloor of a hospital chapel, a track team running to the vanishing point andback, a basketball game the whole neighborhood turns out to cheer, poetryreadings attended by more than sixty people—it sounds exciting! You pictureyourself in a helmet of glass, and a silver suit with copper buckles, strappinginto the seat of a cockpit aimed at the little world. With a few keystrokes, upyou go, lifted by a bright white stream of snow and ash. Of course, this doesnot actually happen. You are, after all, still seated at your desk on the surfaceof the moon in winter, which shows no signs of abating. And weeks pass bylike windows on a moving train.