Heavy snow fell all morning. The weight surprised me.
As I pushed it with my shovel, the snow rolled over
like someone asleep-who will stay sleeping a long time,
and won't care or notice when spring comes, warm and light.
Now at dusk, the sky finally clears. Crows fall in streams of black
milk across the horizon, heading toward their roosts near the river,
their woods. White at noon, the trees have turned to onyx
roses backlit by the red sun. Memory-you promise so much.
"This poem originally appeared in Mudlark #86."
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