B r i a n M u e n z e n m e y e r

The snow has been frequent, simple and plain,
(some shades of white are lost to comparison)
but of late, drifts so swiftly east across
the road, my gaze follows to swollen lake.
Inside, horrors don’t stir nor wake above
surface, yet south I’m sure lingers dead ships.
But what a sight remains of old complaints,
water and air formulating escape!
And both so cold, I know not which more steamed.
Thank God, reason, or just a man of taste,
that I in warm comfort witness all this,
because, the wind, very breath of the west,
casts out forgotten flames in clouds, in veils,
east where they will be new bright days for some.
It is not elapsed east that drives men west,
that direction is the last life alive.
Then I, behind snowplows gathering drifts,
turn left into the city.