Deep and crisp and even—now that's
the kind of snow for me.
Though I think maybe I'd
also add "laughing a little," most likely
at me while I'm trudging along talking,
perhaps to my mom
on a hands-free call, reciting
a dull litany of groceries needed
for the holiday dinner's infamous
broccoli cheese casserole
instead of discussing the refugees
who's pictures she'd just seen,
crouching near a chain-link
fence at the border and eating
a can of beans for dinner—or
the Christmas Eve truce of 1914
and the mirth that oozed up
from the foxholes of Belgium
when soldiers gin-anointed voice boxes
were the only things exploding—or even
entertaining such a miracle's inverse:
the ludicrousness of the ineluctable light
of our shared universal consciousness
getting momentarily stuck in the throat
of a disconsolate baby. Though perhaps
the snow laughs because it suspects
I'm not really on a phone call at all,
but just careening down the street
and mumbling out-loud to myself about
the exact same things.
I'm not really on a phone call at all,
but just careening down the street
and mumbling out-loud to myself about
the exact same things.
