From the Fishouse

Snow would be the right weather
for today. Whiteness indicating
things that don’t exist. And a numbness
and a blanketing to recollect mother

Its second stage is frozenness, and though I long
for its touch across my face, its coldness
settling, what seems to happen
quicker than it should is the snow’s
paralysis. How willing it is
to take on other substances. How I used to run
to it barefoot before I thought
of my own comfort.

But the fall for which we’ve wished
the year is reticent; it hates its unreal
status, its intermittentness.

I could take a job – I’ve been thinking
about my purposes – collecting ice
for the eyes of the princess