Outside, through the window, it’s gray,
a fine mist oozing from streets and houses
the color of the sky, of the sea before sunrise.
Where did the idea come from that it must snow
in winter? It’s OK. The pure white of snow has no
staying power, anyway, turns to grit and
sludge long before it can be properly honored,
buried in the quotidian grind, a mere distraction.
There’s sense and nonsense in everything,
in the rocks, the trees, the teaspoon grass
that grows willy-nilly in driveways, on roofs,
until there’s no distinguishing will from desire.
We walk among our true selves, we think
we have no choice. If we question it, what remains?
Upon the floors of this place are written histories,
each crack, each stain no less a record than the rings
of the tree from which this floor was wrung, and flung
with generations of lives otherwise gone, evaporated,
and now, I look outside, and it’s snowing after all.