In Transit

finding somewhere
to put things, finding something
to say, saying someone’s
name like something
familiar, a taste
a satisfying texture
like squeaky crunch of snow
when all the world is white
and shadow free

another person would
see only clutter
in all this you call
home, all these things
covered in your fingerprints
all this that has nowhere
to go

How Snow

how snow softens
the blow
of silence

how silent bursts
of sounded rage
in unvoiced thoughts
like the wind carried
a few brown leaves
up from autumnal graves last week
and laid them on the thawing ground
saying, See, Spring again will come
there will be green warm ground
believe me

and I believed
but now the same wind
treacherously indifferent
lays the snow heavy wet shroud
over the muffled ground
the forgotten leaves
the voices
that dared to speak