The first snow
falls apologetically
on spiky trees.
Wet remorse
for the things done
last season,
clinging to my eyelashes
in a pile of penance.
Snowflakes stick
like white lies.
I feel the flurries
in a tempo
of self-flagellation.
A milky feast following
the social distancing cilice
chaffing underneath.
A momentary redress:
crystals pile atop paper
masks and plastic trash.
An innocent pause:
powder purifies city stink
obviating the latest strand.
A massive mirror:
pellets reflect the brevity
of vaccinated relief.
The day trail thins;
the bike tire not designed
to fit in.
This year,
December flatlined.
“You only have to bury your friends. Then, you’ll find it gets worse.”
