Snow

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Snow
is silence visible
delivered like a promise
quietly kept
that it would return.

Snow
Has not aged
the way I have.

My hair is whiter than its coat now
Yet my memories
remain a mad flurry of
hexagonal plates and stellar dendrites
that accumulate
like a field of insistent jasmine
which can survive
year after year.
the losses
and the blizzard of unkindness
that reminds us
weather
is as brief as a daydream.

Snow
is the accumulation
of brushstrokes:
Monet’s Magpie
Hassam’s Late Afternoon New York Winter
Renoir’s Skates in the Bois de Boulogne -
framed by my windows
which I can fly through
on this island of passing days
when summer feels
as distant
as the length of longing.





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