At every hand there are moments we

cannot quite grasp or understand.  Free



to decide, to interpret, we watch rain

streaking down the window, the drain



emptying, leaves blown by a cold wind.

At least we sense a continuity in



such falling away.  But not with snow.

It is forgetfulness, what does not know,



has nothing to remember in the first place.

Its purpose is to cover, to leave no trace



of anything.  Whatever was there before—

the worn broom leaned against the door



and almost buried now, the pile of brick,

the bushel basket filling up with thick,

gathering whiteness, half sunk in a drift—

all these things are lost in the slow sift



of the snow"s falling.  Now someone asks

if you can remember—such a simple task—



the time before you were born.  Of course

you cannot, nor can I.  Snow is the horse



that would never dream of running away,

that plods on, pulling the empty sleigh



while the tracks behind it fill, and soon

everything is smooth again.  No moon,



no stars, to guide your way.  No light.

Climb up, get in.  Be drawn into the night.