I
Amid white plains and
white wind it
has always scared
you- the sky opens
to the horizon
where you wonder if
it is really there
or if it is just a
sheet of light blue
paper reflecting light and
promising infinity.


II
There is a certain
feeling to the snow
when it has a
beating heart, when it
lives like you do
and wants like
you want, reaching for and
sometimes colliding with
the arm of an outstretched limb,
the dim glow of
a clouded streetlamp,


III
except when the sun
crystalizes its light: then
snow's pallid face seems
much brighter and
less alive.