william mcgreal

Window of Snow

WINDOW OF SNOW

 

I fist the drapes out wide this morning 

on my window on my world 

the snowfall mechanical 

and of single mind 

uninterested in fancy or whim 

unconcerned with where it falls 

or what it claims

except to fall until it is over 

until there is no more time to tell. 

 

My job is to make the tea 

and write in my book 

and tap the hour glass of snow  

and call out the names 

of things left in my yard 

as one thing becomes 

shapeless like another 

until there is nothing left to say 

and there is nothing left 

but the fallen snow 

and the ring of trees 

standing witness 

offering their silent prayers.