Thirty three and yet
the snow insists
on being snow
leans in from the south
as fine as talc
erasing the woods
across the ravaged field
snow upon snow
just as my thoughts
insist on being
what they are
which is to say
obsessed
with should-have-knowns
unrelenting and aslant
distances dimished
east and west
deepening layers
day upon day
the snow at seventy two.
