by Julia Wendell
It snows in feet, not inches,
the fleeting, hushing plunge of it.
It snows, all day and then some,
piling silently up
on the hilly pastures.
When I’ve finally had my fill,
it snows another ocean—
pelting, as if falling
wasn’t enough—
a crazed Einstein,
erasing what came before
to start the lesson over—
a blizzard of wisdoms
traveling at the speed
of incomprehension.
My breath comes fitfully—
slate, chalk, merciful dusk.
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