The Gravity of Snow
Drifts slide over
their white-weight,
the heaps are their own snow-plows.
Mounds are erased and remodeled
by a laboring wind.
When the world is a white-out
perception forgets color,
the departed draw nearer.
Graveyard trees
creak,
heavy the waiting
of the gone away,
their ghostly tread
descending
to be invisible once more
under stone heads.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2022
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