By Jennifer Angelina Petro
This snow slows time; falls
With patience only grief understands.
Watching from this bed,
These legs folded under,
These hands resting on these thighs;
This snow becomes everything
This heart is not.
This nearly motionless drifting,
This meticulous chaos beautifully covering
Roads and rooftops, this insinuating
Itself through exposed crowns of trees,
This cold made visible, this sky
Reminding all of us it does whatever wants.
Things it does not accomplish:
Reaching the little flames of seeds,
Shrouding this fierce compassion burning
Inside this heart—coursing through this blood—
Not here, not today—
The furnace of this heart rages on.