A soft light — bright— streams in through the window,
Diffused by the snow falling outside.
The oil burner purrs beneath the floor.
Arise from patchwork quilts and comforters,
Groggy as the cold air prickles my skin.
The bed beckons me—a warm and soft bosom
To fall into and slowly drift away,
But no, I cannot stay. I dress myself with
Tube sox, cotton long-johns, a worn out tee,
Old blue jeans and a college sweatshirt,
Rubber-soled boots and black-wool gloves, a hat—
Or more fittingly: a little beanie—
A long black wool coat (like ones worn by Suits),
And a red scarf that’s wrapped around my neck.
The funk of morning, and my hair a-strewn
Under a fabric cocoon. I look out
With a plastic shovel in woolen hand.
A wall of cold beyond the threshold of
My door greets me as I begin to scrape.
As the plastic drags, an igloo takes form,
Reminding me of childhood revelry.
The ancient great evergreen in my yard,
Taunts me as I clear a path, dropping snow
Exactly where I’ll go. I take a break
And watch my breath condense and the snow
Around me in the shadow-less daylight.
Houses on my block, uniform in white,
And the only soul around: only me.
Yes the snow is falling, but I am not—
I stand still, all alone, and I listen,
But I cannot hear a thing—Absolute
Silence. I will take refuge in the peace
In the falling snow,
In its solitude.
