A poem for the grieving
What could be draws near: now here, now whole,
now mess, now melt, now gone. Cold wind blows
over warmer water, churns up moisture, curls
and crops each liquid drop to crystal, ready to fall
when cloud scrapes cross some highest hill and spills.
Christ spent an evening splitting atoms for this,
so many ribs and lungs and livers. We all shiver.
The snow falls on the old and the young. I’m tired
of watching the yard fill with these precise bright
jagged unique crisp wisps, now here, now whole,
now mess, now melt, now gone.
Snow on snow on snow on snow on snow.
I don’t know how the houses hold the weight.
The flakes accumulate on every blinking light
and yet stay lit. How brief their glow.
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