Bomb Cyclone

These flakes still invoke being
In the coming dark, lights blinking
In the Wollman rink, or skiing
In the Park, gliding down deserted

Roads that only yesterday were
Filled with cars, warm
Logs crackling in the hearth,
Trees heavy with the storm,

Or white filling up the lawn
Outside the window sills in Kisco,
Colored bulbs drawn between
The mounded hills of Colorado

And the canopies of our childhood
Streets, Curriers & Ives that elves
Embedded in the woods
Now grown-up themselves

Like shoveled blocks of castles trapped
In sleet, afternoons whiled away
In sleds, or wrapped in
Graupel in our own valley,

Carved through vales only we know,
Whole histories scotch-taped to each
And every drop of snow, starved
As we are now to trade

The whole world for these laden
Trees, put away so long ago.

January 29th, 2022
Kaiholu