- The deep white pack eases down the steep warm roof,
- revealing red metal at the roofline.
- The pack curls down, far over the eaves,
- cold trumping gravity to hold there,
- seemingly unsustained,
- ending in improbably long tendrils of thin clear ice.
- .
- With no notice, no shift of wind or light or sound,
- the faint gray sky sends down new snow,
- miniature points of crystallized mist
- falling fast and straight, toward the hidden ground.
- .
- Hour after hour, the patient, unceasing fall
- repairs the places
- where our woodstove made red swaths,
- where our boots had marked the hills,
- where our shovels cut dark paths.
- And everything is white again,
- as if we were never here.
