When you fly
you make something out
of nothing.
That night it smelled like snow.
and her voice blew crystals
out of her mouth and
into my ears.
Later, in her arms
philosophy fell softly
like the flakes outside.
The morning after her pillow
blanketed the white layer
across the cold earth.

But
the snow was heavy
and I did not leave
for fear my footprints would
not show the way back.
So, I stayed inside
and the next day
when the snow still flew
I did not try to leave.
On the third, it stopped
and the perfect white
smoothed words across the cold.
But still I did not leave
because too many would see
my footprints
and know the path

So for five days I stayed.
Untill the rain fell
and froze all memories
locked under the brittle surface.

Driving away it is clear.
New England, teetering on
the edge of climate zones
can not decide.
And so the rain snow frozen
slabs whip
off the cars
and fly

Twirling and floating
in the air
For five seconds

Until
They crash to the ground
And smash
Into a million pieces.
Burying all hope of reconstruction.
Or into the window ,
shattering crystal glass
into my face.

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