DAMAGE CONTROL

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  • 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.