The snow in the back yard rusts like a plucked white rose,
Rutted with the tracks of rabbits and raccoons,
Leaf-pocked and stained with coal ash the wind blows
From factories on the river — a field of runes.
Couples skate, boys race, a man falls through the ice,
Though no one seems to see. Two drunkards play with dice.
The drowned body won’t be found until the spring thaw,
With no consideration of conscience or law.
The air is bitter, unignited by the sun.
The wind stings the cheeks, blinds the eyes, numbs the ears.
It hasn’t been this damned cold in a year of years.
Yet the day is a festival for everyone.
For now, winter distracts women, children and men.
The next snow storm will wipe the world clean again.
My book of the first 200 of these sonnets is now available for purchase. Click here:
