Like white lace crumbled in night’s hand
The snow fell to earth, a warehouse
For memories each toile and cordonnet
Wove between picots melting away into
Night’s embrace. This, this is what remains.
A thing more than dew, more than what coats
The bare foot a child wears on an autumn morning,
Air just cool enough to suck out the last of what lingers
Inside it and deposit it on the soft green spears that cling
To life. I have stumbled upon winter.
Now we must push our hands into the pile
Down deep enough to feel it, cool like kids wanted
To be when it was the commodity of hallways
Walked in trepidation for being recognized
For who they actually were behind the costume.
Night, in your hands, I discovered that thing
I had wandered the halls for as a child.
You crumbled the lace, then gave me snow
To play in for a while until I could reweave
The story absent details no longer needed.
Yes, somewhere in a season that I’ve yet to name
I arrive. I arrive. Let me repeat once more,
To be sure you understand its significance:
Drape me in fresh drops of dew like when I was born.