All the land and roads are snow white
in my mind, even though the rain pummels down
and polishes the streets into sheets of slick glass,
and we, bumbling fools we are,
slip and fall on our behinds, skate our ways
to our cars, for the cold has thwacked on us,
and hardened all our busy worlds, ant farms
hustling back and forth, yet inside ourselves
a lacing of droplets, shapes ad infinitum;
we say we long for unity, but
under it all, we just want wonders unique
and brief, so brief, once they saunter down and rest
their psaligraphic bodies, we want them melted
into buds and bones, and gone.