When snow is falling it’s possible
you’ll feel listless. Snow, after all,
smothers everything, street signs, garden
lanterns, the sad hump of the dog buried in the yard
three years ago, what you can and cannot see.
When snow is falling it’s possible
you’ll feel listless. Snow, after all,
smothers everything, street signs, garden
lanterns, the sad hump of the dog buried in the yard
three years ago, what you can and cannot see.
Snow makes you ask, what’s the use?
It takes away tomorrow. Every destination
becomes the point of your departure, the word
or moment you knew you had to leave
now heavy with white and cold
like boughs of cedar, bearing down.
There’s no end to lassitude;
the guilt, the good intentions drift
higher than the windowsills, bury the bike
one of you left against the fence all winter.
Unlike rain, you wear snow like a fabric,
lace or tulle. Your mouth fills with it,
your lashes finely feather. Easy to imagine
when you move your arms you’re growing wings,
marvellous and lit, and as you sink, you fly.
