Quietly, the snow does fall
white like pages in a novel,
footsteps here and there like ink
and where they go is the story.
And through the woods and wishful way,
sauntering past streets gray-laid
sprinkles wet the whipping wraiths
of snow and frost and coldly things
grinning, they descend their plays
on us, making familiar into foreign
our world into ghostly origin
the snow covers all of it.
But every color of human hue
can juxtapose these jinxes,
permafrost not permanent
so long as we can help it.