In the muffled surround of the snow
my senses are heightened, smell and sight
and color explore newfound depth against silent white,
rubbery-rouged cheeks, the taste of warm salinity, my own mouth,
I ice over where my breath escapes, feet below me burrowing steps,
mine but too far away for control, I amble mind-freely, windily gusted
along low on the ground, I’m a spiral of small tornadoes, the parts greater than any sum I can tally, merely me – a witness to an epic, snow as it has always been, new-fallen, chaste, a canvas for dreams, a springboard for joy, an unblemished blanket where sky meets earth, capturing the early sun underneath for posterity, growth, a day in the future, a moment in time yet spent,
to erupt new life, a tendril of green from awakened dicotyledons,
embraced by our local star at its vernal angle.

I stay out long, way beyond late,
to better enjoy the warmth of our home awaiting.

Chagall 2018

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