The new snow covers everything.
This morning, the world was bathed
in that sharp-edged light
that comes in winter
after a storm blows through.
Outside my window, on the street below,
a small child, an electric-blue bundle
lets go of an adult’s hand
to charge headfirst into a towering snowdrift.
When a snowplow passes
to shove aside the early morning quiet
the child stares, transfixed, as it rumbles past.

The new snow covers everything.
It covers cars that can be found only
by remembering where they were parked,
and digging like archeologists
seeking clues to some ancient civilization.
People who pass each other without speaking
each morning on the way to work
are now laughing and shoveling together,
good-natured butts of Mother Nature’s joke.

The new snow covers everything.
It covers dogshit and cigarette butts.
It covers used condoms and losing lottery tickets
and under this impossibly blue sky
on what seems the very first morning of the world
the city is an old whore in a white wedding dress
clutching, like a fistful of flowers,
the idea that in spite of everything
we know to be true
about the world and ourselves
we might, somehow,
begin again.

Charles Coe — Possibility¬†

Accent theme by Handsome Code

Brian. 21. MA. SSU. Babs.
Doing cool shit in a field.

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