Ghosts In the Snow

The drifts move their white-weight as if the heaps themselves were snow-plows Again the sky falls, the packed mounds are erased and remodeled under a new wind-planted labor. I understand that ghosts linger in familiar rooms. When the world is a white-out and perception forgets color, the departed draw nearer to their point of departure, as if they were also falling like snow from their earthly lives. I listen to the roof creaking with the heaviness of their returning tread.