An observation is a near as one gets
to the basic crunch of snow,
never being inside to feel its pack,
the brittle wetness as a trillion particles
compact into a trillion more.
2.
The distances we feel-- we know,
are cosmoses compared to space--
interposed between the snow.
3.
What keeps one in a body?
From floating away
with the brazen chill of wind
and the nighest bank of snow
brushing beneath our boots?
4.
I might've been a flake,
I might've touched the wind,
I might've, but I'm not.
5.
Between bare ground
and viscous air,
it's all there, growing whiter
and wider and without
a lake and forest to divide it,
I might not see past the snow.
6.
Watching a lake freeze
becomes a contemplative
act of expression, a burial,
when the Sun has almost set.
7.
Her cruelest moments were like
snow in the Arctic:
hard-packed and plenteous.
8.
I would rather melt
than have to cross another
desert of snow, omitted from her sight.
9.
Its purity cakes everything;
her pervasive whiteness,
the near-perfect white
only a reflection of the Sun.
10.
It's blank.
11.
My eyes are black in the center,
white along the rim,
with blue in between,
like sooted snow, fresh snow, glacial snow.
12.
Had it been colder that day,
the rain would've been snow,
and she just might've returned that call.
13.
It's getting desperate as
the crystals and connections
get warmer and our bonds
get looser and looser and
poof!
What once was
a vital gliding sliver,
is reduced to a drop
in a pool.
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