What Should We Call It
Blanched feather-confetti
of the snow you kept hearing
was coming, for minutes
and minutes. An hour
of shattered birches
still hovering and falling.
Flicked on like a light
inside you, the new thought
that you do not want the snow
to stop, even though you see
it slowing, already. That specific
dread of the end of snow.
Showing posts with label What Should We Call It. Show all posts
Showing posts with label What Should We Call It. Show all posts
Monday, March 4, 2013
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