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.