The snow is falling

The snow is falling
on the ground.

White, virgin snow

Not the first this year,

Although, today seems like a new beginning.

(It did rain for weeks)

My cones are bleached with jarring possibility.

The cold white light wakes me

-wired to that part, in the back of my head:

a place that remembers things but only feels them when it's prompted.

These little things:

a leaf, someone's scarf, the cursive of your writing, left behind,

dance to me playfully as if they had always been waiting.

I glance out to see snow but it's still.

In a visually oriented world it hits me visually, through the panes of glass.

It brings on a new mood like a switch.

The snow makes it ok to forget, makes it easy to start another affair

you can get wrapped up in its temporary magic.

rude surfaces clothed over in cotton

not to heal but to hide.

And why not fake changes until they happen?

Nature doesn't know the difference.

Time is equally confused with instances, but you will remember

and things will make sense to us when we think so.

Why does the snow fall?

Why not?

This sudden choice is liberating right now right here.

As the body of settings turn inside-out, the outside of my thoughts turn in, and certain things don't matter because the ground is already covered.

Staying in seems safer

though the outdoors are just a little more uninhabitable.

It makes things interesting.

Imposes conditions -like cumbersome driving.

It makes getting the mail seem more like a jail-break,

and pedestrians are more accomodating to the assault of temperature, because

they have to get to work

and it's already late

and now I can't see the snow, though I sense much activity.

I suppose it's all part of winter.