loud IS THE FALLING SNOW

I used to think that snow was soft

and gentle and pretty and fun

, remembering where from a memory waits distant

that half-built igloo we made (or rather, he made).

It is not as quiet these days,

the snow, that is.

I find it loud and stiff in all its ways,

Neither changing nor same-ing.

Each layer

—one crystalline ice, one saturated and heavy, one light fluffy, then again a thin ice—

seems to story the conditions both of

falling

from a height

beyond

my comprehension as well as (awaiting

the flake)

the storm’s laid-out history upon the ground without the slightest mistake.

I used to think that snow was a treat

and kind and bright and fun

remembering a now that is right here

running through my yard is no one.

It is cold, it is wet, it is dangerous

it hurts

the eyes to look at,

the skin to touch,

the tongue the teeth to taste.

In every sense not hearing, it is loud.

The aural silence extends the focus to the other loudnesses,

yet that which hurts, we find beautiful?

I used to think each snow was different,

when walked outside as a kid?

remembering time with him, or her, or her, or him.

But I now see storms have been the same in one

Whatever their time, amount, or risks, they all came and went

Now come here.

Take those off.

Put on your pants, now your jeans.

Put on your shirt, now your sweater.

Two pairs of socks, Love.

Here are your boots,

here is your scarf.

Wear the other coat, it is warmer.

Don’t forget your hat and your gloves.

We always bundle up.

Layer up before you go out in the cold.