When the slush slides
off of the city church
steeple's roof, it will
fall onto the sidewalk.
Gift of so much less
than a foot of snow,
yet the street corners are what
Antarctica would be like
warmer; in my neighborhood
Barricaded into the house
on a pile of groceries and blankets.
Skylight which is like
and aquarium of ice,
grey light; from where water
increasingly is.
Gratitude and exhaustion.
Benevolence buffed
to a high shine and loving
the elbow grease.
If love were just
a matter of work
Or density of purpose
growing more dense
until no tactile difference
is felt. Just living
and a surface, and then
something else.
