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.”