Snow is not a kind of water. Mostly it is cruel.
Much apparent softness comes with deception. On the ground, footprints mash others. What lies beneath, secreted, rises with time in tinges of yellow, brown, tarmac black.
In the air, it throws asterisks at my face. They hit aslant, as blunted hyphens. Flakes mascara-clog my upturned gaze, glaze weathered cheeks, push lips beyond redness. Hat, gloves, stance shape themselves around it. Skin dries in its pale eczema image.
Yes, this is the white stuff of past years’ wonder.
And yet…sometimes still the pull of strange kinship. A reminder of substantial metamorphosis. Adaptations to, and fro.
(From ‘Beyond]’, Knives Forks And Spoons Press, 2013.)