Late afternoon snow fell
like confetti from the twilit sky:
grey flakes crowded the air,
plastered east sides of trees
impasto, leaving a work
by some pallette knife artist
whiting out everything from his view
but from my angle
there are still black rough edges
sketched in and although
the winter-fraught grass is
all but buried, I see it, too
and in it,
a promise
that this squeaky
grey twilight kludge
that records our crunchy progress
like plaster casts at a crime scene
it will vanish, and with it, winter.
