I was asked just now, where one could find some of my poetry online, and realized that I’ve not put anything on here in quite a while. Here’s something that I’ve been keen on recently- I wrote it in December, I’ve been trying to get it solid, and perform it as much as I can before it’s unseasonable.

First Snow

And this must be what it feels like
to really be in love
not some passing flutter of lacy flakes
that balance perfectly on the tips of green grass blades.
Not some nighttime shimmer in streetlight
only to melt with the noonday sun.

It is being
snowed
in.
You might want to hide in your warm bed mornings
knowing it has piled up against the screen door
and glazed over your windshield, making it tough work
to see exactly what is going on out there.
And you want to drive fast, just get through it,
but the more you push the gas pedal towards the floormat
the more your heart fishtails through the intersection
the more likely you are to spin out of control
find yourself wrecked in it- and being wrecked is not pretty.

By daylight it is blinding.
Nothing looks like it used to, this bare ache
of leafless branches and grey skies has become
some kind of holiday greeting card- unbelievable and dreamlike.
You don’t want to go out in it,
your footsteps and shadow will only sully it-
if you keep your distance it may always be pristine and perfect.

By night it howls past walls,
shakes your old window panes,
keeps you up late.
Or is immense and quieter than you can imagine.
You will wake sleepless at three a.m.
watching now amber, now red, now green
by the stoplight at the corner
it is falling like astronauts to the moon
slow-motion floaters.
It will call you like the pied piper
undisturbed before the plows,
You will rise and dress like a somnambulist.
You will walk out into it
see the city lit up and empty
washed clean with your lover.
You will not feel alone-
it will cover the sidewalks and playgrounds
every park bench and doorstep
will belong to you, the snow, and three a.m.

And you will grow tired of it.
You will slip and fall and it will hurt or be embarrassing.
You will tire of how it grasps at your fingertips,
how it waits at your window
how it sits on your doorstep muddy and kicked
like a hungry mutt.
You will dread going out in it,
all the idiots driving like they’ve never been in love before,
there’s too much of it out there
imperfect, in great unwanted mounds in Walmart parkinglots.
You will push it from your sidewalks
and brush it from your car,
this much is a burden, you will wish for warmer climes.

And find yourself waking at three a.m.
sometime in late March
heart and lungs swollen
sleepwalking into your hat and mittens
slipping into boots waiting faithfully next to the door.
It will settle on your eyelashes
your cheeks will grow pink
It will tell you it forgives you, it understands.
It just wanted to see you
one last time, before it had to go.