back in december, when i heard
the word "snow", i thought : white, purity, beauty.
i don't need to tell you that in february
it isn't that way.

the wind peels a cold stinging powder
off the high dunes.  clouds
of driven snow moan and twirl
like restless ghosts.
my own skin feels like
a drift of old snow.

you know the old story-
if i could i would hold your hands
between my palms
we could spread some warmth.
but shadows lap across the sky;
somewhere, behind those clouds,
there is a frozen moon..

the heroic, their legs aching,
trudge on snowshoes
across the last meadow, then
go unnoticed into dark houses