Snow Poem
Snow’s mute mica
glimmers and arches
in aging trees
under the quiet unction of snow.
Always
we must be going
nowhere.
There are few reprieves
or commuted sentences of snow.
We are past pleasure—
contemplation
is an afterthought—
fresh rabbit tracks
in newly fallen snow
through frosted windows—
pale moons of blood
blurred white
around ivory edges
of a perfect world.
Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2006
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