You say snow
is like depression—
it starts slow, then
covers everything.
These winter nights
are lonely ghosts,
cold shadows
of their brighter selves.
A muffled silence
envelops the oak
into itself and encroaches—
padded walls
for the sick and crazy.
I watch you gaze
out the car window,
fourteen and wise
beyond your difficult years,
and wonder if you will
grow into your fullness,
despite everything.
A snowplow rumbles by,
shears the abominable
drifts into tall banks
on either side,
throws salt onto
ice-packed streets.
