It stacks slowly on the holly tree outside my window.
Pooling on pointed leaves. Slicking berries that bleed under the ice.
A turn-coat sky keeps sifting, sifting. Steadily sifting. All afternoon.
Shifting the world from brown to white.
Shaking a confectionary veil of dust on burned up leaves.
A shroud of quiet that calms, thins, slows me down.
In a good way.
The way it folds me into the walls. Pulls me to the panes –
smothers my worry. Making me love long. And hold more.
I clutch at it, shun the sun. Reluctant to learn
what is coming, what could be, what is.
The neighbors are home. I see them in shuttered light, flicking shadows.
I’ve come to love this place. This space of living in between.
What’s the hurry? Seasons go.
Nothing wrong with welcoming one more snow.