A steady stream of snow
falls down out the window
None of it has stuck
but this round keeps up
and hope stirs as we head
to our darkest days
At least when the sun goes
all the light is held in
white skies and white hills
and takes up all the space
of sound which is quiet
dampened, swallowed
just the hush of flakes that fall
and singe on our skin
/
Earlier I smoked a joint in the bath
as the windows mirrored the sky
and the white earth, frost on glass
in my breath or the smoke
and the steam
Seasons really are feelings,
winter the most obvious
as I sat there like a ritual
Even when all is hot and in bloom
it is the same, even though
it isn’t white or brown or green
/
You’d never find me in a place
like California where you didn’t
get the chance to die every year
and live again
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