The Zetetic Passage of a Wandering White Fox

From Turakh up to Dunay, into the icy waste of the Laptev
Down the coast again to the river's mouth across powdered hills
In Tksi, Bulun, and Nayba I looked
Yet you were gone.

Was that your voice in the roar of wind that
Crept across the cataracts from the deep interior?
It was against a blanket of white that two sable orbs would materialize
And then failing to fulfill their promise of you
Fade back into the soft and slowly falling snow.

The frost administers it's sacred runes and
The narwhale greets me with apt admonishments.
In sheeted blue emeralds that gather on the wisps of a wintry moon
I hear that eternal language
Wherefore every solid substance doth teach.
The preceptor is only the face of the living world.
And the utterances at which I wonder
While couched upon the rocky crag of some great eminence
To bury my head in thick white fur
And sulk in the vacancy left by your absence
Are some divine foreshadowing
Of things beyond all reason or abstruse musing.

Gladden me in this solitude.
In the majestic cadence of the folds of snow
That gather around my deep repose
It must somehow be here hidden the signature of your Sybil song.

Thus in the undulations of these billowing drifts
Is bespoken the prescience of a messianic vision.
Like a palimpsest that nature doth rework in her restless fluttering
So is written the holy verse that would guide me forth.
In the zetetic passage of a wandering white fox
In the swelling sea that hides below ice
In the owlet's cry
I hear your spirit song.

Rex Nemorensis