untampered with

flakes fall white on stone

drift past windows

glide and filter through the trees

bright and diamond.

Hour by hour in soft mesh

they fall until the clocks

crack and things stand prisoned

in the pointed ice.

A white silence, silent,

the month turns over in its sleep

blood freezes in a drop.

Snow dots, marking life,

drug the moving streams.

The sky is still.

I've waited this relief,

waited for engines to run down,

for commotion to cease.

Then, in surcease,

to dream white dreams,

to press my face against

the cold blue air.