the world washes over and has its way,
like the snow,
it comes, congregates,
slows, and goes.


the world washes over like the snow,
hardens the dirt,
stains a flimsy shirt,
burns uncovered, soft skin black.

at dusty markets,
hanging from trees,
flesh of rotting meats freeze.

but, the coat atop
the earth is soft,
so no one notices the loss.

when the snow stops,
bitterly I’ll watch
more never-ending loss,
as forever fallen snow hardens and cracks,
then melts into the river
and slips to some warmer hell,

as the birds in the south flock,
only to flee at the frost.

then the snow comes,