They are ladders,
I tell myself, the snowflakes,
and I could climb them
until the small white yard
disappears in the white, white land.
No, I tell myself,
they are kisses,
millions and millions
of small cold kisses.
No. They are voiceless bells
reminding us to come to pray.
Or lightness manifest. Or curtains
to hide our loss. Or perhaps,
I consider, they are
nothing more than snow,
just as a day is just a day,
and a woman is just a woman,
though sometimes she looks outside
of herself for a sign, looks for meaning
in the spaces between the flakes,
as if a drift or gust or squall might mean, well,
it all slips away.
One thing for certain, I am one
of many. One thing for certain.
I am not lost. I am here
leaning into the windswept snowflakes, falling,
and the field I’m in is a field, open and white.
