Snow falling, no sound, deep
in the thick of the coldest day so far.

People as ever coming and going
on the few roads still open

to and from here, while everything
slows to freezing, molecular

rest expanded to fanged ridges.
Iced overhangs, sunquivering,

give a little as we move on
doing as ever what figures and

disfigures us in the doing. No
sound now but thinking here

the snow has come to see us on
and down the way in, warm

wormworlds await the sun as
human movement rattles passing

through fear of loss to loss itself
and through, by shining means

blurring. White downrushing dots
decide the day from here on out.

Karl Parker