daily poem

This snow is generous. It
 floats in the unhurried way
of old ladies, looking at
trays of fruit in an open
market.

I imagine collections of like
friends, meeting on the tops
of trees. There are hours of
jostling talk, an entire evening
of greetings.

Until  laying down, one
body by one body to sleep,
they stretch out across this
darkness, made mute by this
still landscape.

This snow is generous. It has
a pure tenderness whispering,
close your eyes and stand,
wait in the dark for the soft,
cold touch of this
white dropping sky.