WHITE POEM

so white so snow
so softly so softly
snow falling as clean as fresh
as white as a sheet of paper the
flakes coming down,
                         down
                           down
steady steady
all of them slanted at the same angle
almost exactly the angle at which you would
hold a pen to write a poem about that clean
clean sheet that keeps coming
                                   down
                                     down
until the fallen snow becomes itself a white poem
its lines curved
its shape thick and sculpted
a landscape
billowing in
all directions, all edges rounded and so so white,
and so so soft
and no no sound except for the occasional whipsaw of
wind that blows fine powdery sheets wild every which way.

And inside, we remain in our
pajamas until after noon, warm, sipping hot drinks, thinking how
delighted we are by the winter scene out the window and by
the cozy warmth inside.