by Robin Myers

The shadowed snow is as blue and strange
as if it’s never heard a song about itself,

and more is ashing its way in over the mountain;
we can see it.

The light visits us for a little while.
It’s cold in a way that would kill you

if you let it.
Firs rise up animal and resplendent

among the whittled-down.
So much organism

grows back in the spring.
Where does it keep itself, how

does it trust itself
to survive?

In other lives,
I wait tables in Arizona,

I have leukemia,
I’m cruel to my neighbors,

I love a woman,
I swim laps every day.

In some life or other, I’m patient,
I snow.

Published on April 11, 2019