SNOW

by Louis Gallo


The wind blows wisps
of new falling snow
into my window.
It settles on books,
doodads, furniture,
even my skin –
a soft distraction
like cold glitter,
powdery wool.
Soon mounds
bury the books, papers,
an armoire, desk
and space heater,
which sizzles out.
I turn blue in a dune
but refuse to care.
Chances like this
don’t come
in a lifetime.

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