Snow
still comes. Still covers all
not grass
not Sandburg's greenly waving fibered blanket
full of fragrance allowing
life in the the midst of death
is humming underneath.
Snow is the sheath of cold
white sameness which in February
comes without the bells
and anticipation
of fireside's gingerbaking
cinnamon cakes. It takes a frozen tarp
and nullifies the violet's
violent
triumphant voice
which even
in the midst of broken sleepless weariness still stands there
like a little soldier fighting for our lives. Snow
goes in
and on and through
to the graveside
service
which is the last stop on these trains
where some will stand in rain
under umbrella'd grief and swear they loved us
and that life is ever April
May
folks who see snow
as the great white
wash
of dumpsters
dragons
duty
derailed
and life
as a tale of knights
and windmills won but I know snow is silence
death
and forgetfulness
of tea
leaves never read
misshapen comma children
floating in the seas of wombs unopened
and
unsung.
