i.
Snow erases even itself,
an artist painting white onto an empty canvas;
tricks of the eye, depth and illusion
a blank.

You walk, in a black jacket,
past trees bent with icicles.

We all hold
the weight of winter in our limbs.


ii.
In April,
we feign surprise when snow
flurries past the windowpanes.

Even in this thaw, we feel
frozen inner landscapes

down to the bare bone.