Which White Snow

In the winter

there are poems beneath the snow

footprints

frozen on a sidewalk,

lonesome birds, skaters on a pond.

 

I was safe,

and too warm inside today.

You didn’t come home

according to my time.

 

I sat at the window

and watched the snow

in mindful vegetation;

white water chrystal that clings

to itself,

white snow that packs

and picks up more snow.

 

Are you out there,

stuck in the snow?

Are you clinging to your self,

or are you packing

to pick up more snow?