The snow falls red.

The wind carries it for miles,
pinpricks of red against a gray sky,
drifting on a breeze of biting cold.
It tumbles through the air,
falling and falling
until it finally splatters the ground.

Against the stone, it melts;
circles of red forming,
like drops of blood from a wound in the sky.
The rocks are bathed in it,
dripping red seeping into every crack and crevice,
every mouse-hole and anthill,
until it finally reaches the greedy roots of the thirsty plants.

Stems and leaves drinking from the life force of the storm clouds,
plants turned into blood-suckers that feed on the sky.
Their roots reach and consume,
growing into the dirt,
so far down,
so far down,
until the reach the sacred places.
The holy places in the soil
where the loved ones were put to rest
by their crying sons and daughters,
brothers and sisters,
fathers and mothers.
But in their greed, the plants don’t care,
always reaching and consuming and growing,

until their leaves run red with blood.