And here is the river, covered by ice,
covered by snow, covered by sunlight,
covered in turn by a hush
that feels like a choice. And over all this
something has gone running,
small and light, across the softness
and the slickness and the darkness
buried beneath.
I walk across the snow and write
small, snowy poems
while the world’s current roars.
Aren’t they pretty, my tidy footsteps?
Aren’t they pretty, my lovely words?
Not going to lie, I miss this snow already. Everything already feels so much more soggy and real. I can let myself believe almost anything in the snow.