Only five hundred dead.

Is five hundred better than

Yesterday’s thousand

Birds chirp, sirens sound.

Disregarding the blue lights

They are pulling worms

Thaw arrives seeping

Sucking detritus downwards.

A little snowdrop

A midnight garden

Moonlit snow and deep shadows

Luminous eyes watch

A women keeps hens

She dyes her hair green, and mourns

The loss of her son

He lives in the woods

In plain sight he hides from view

So feral his skills

The shelter is gone

Twigs and branches disassembled

Of the man, no trace

The pleasure and pain

of snow. Ice crystals delight

the eyes and nip toes.

How bright the blue sky

Breath forms clouds and footsteps crunch

So good to get out

Snow is bright and clean,

It covers over all things.

But know – it will melt.