NaPoReMo entry - untitled as apologia

PFFA seems to be down right now, so I'll post my entry here, and then post it later at PFFA. I'm behind on the challenge of writing every day about a poem I read in a collection I bought written by a modern poet. I tried not to fall more behind on it so I was like "aaaargh!!!" when I couldn't log in.

Here's the latest entry:

untitled as apologia

Quan Barry really packs those punches with her titles. She really, really does (and I'm trying really hard not to make very bad boxing puns). Now I'm thinking how "untitled" will be "apologia". It reminds me of apologetics, apologies, and Greek or Latin words of which I don't know the exact definitions.

So google returns with this:
1. a defense especially of one's opinions, position, or actions.
2. Literature. a work written as an explanation or justification of one's motives, convictions, or acts.

The poem's first line:

"As if you could take the winter light & transform it in your very hands"

Hmm. Perhaps the person here thinks the "you" presumptuous. I read the words "you" and "your very" with slight emphasis.

Maybe the "you" never said they could do this "transform it" thing
but n sometimes elevates the "you" in their mind because they think "you" capable of being able to do this, and then sometimes "you" might be placed a step down.

If so, the person not the "you" might be internally voicing these thoughts as they are going back and forth thinking the transformation of the short winter light (to something better) by the "you" possible, and sometimes not seemingly possible. Sometimes they think the idea, in and of itself, might be somewhat "out there".

Throughout the poem, I sensed an uncertainty in the, as yet, incomplete foundation of beliefs in general and how they relate to the "you" as well.

(all this being speculation on my part)

Later, the n states:

"Tonight the snow grows like a penance."

It's snowing, and snowing, and snowing. Each pained minute and each long thought shows itself in the rising history of snow on a fence or the grass. And it's dark. It'll always be dark. Always ongoing reparation and repairing. Will it always be dark? Will it always be snowing? Is there nothing more?

And then it ends :

The dawn is a white robe.
----
Striking images that I'll remember later:
"your face of sand, your eyes like dark corners"