I want to know
when the snow will stop
because my senses
tell me it’s never going to
for that sky seems
full and gray and permanent
and the white, flaky downpour
feels enduring,
setting in like arthritis
or gloom,
and I know how it gets
more difficult to grin
in those brutally exposed times
of pain and bitterness
and I figure worlds too
must, at some point,
find the effort not worth it,
the clear sky,
creamy yellow sun,
a deft balancing act
that gets tougher and tougher
to hold together
with each passing year
so I call a friend
on this dark winter night,
not to confirm
what it’s doing outside
or in here or anywhere
been or to come,
but to hear that
maybe somewhere, somehow,
in the glimmer of words,
in the tone of a voice,
it doesn’t have to be
about the weather.<\/p>\n\n\n\n