Written by Jack Andrew Cribb
I saw no snow this winter,
no white peaks, the ice cream carpet capturing flowers and grass,
stasis fields and witchery,
no roofs or gutters cramped and bowed,
caked like river clay on bare cheeks,
no light patter, heavy rain, medium white swish of a pony’s tail,
sparkling glass shards onto the fabric of gloves.
I’ve seen the cold this winter,
friends abandoned in the dark,
food left untouched, disregarded,
harsh lights, alcoholics, bleached countertops.
Through all this cold, a little snow may have
warmed things up.