Snow War: ‘there’s a man I never met before who looks a lot like me; there’s a little place called heaven I’ll probably never see’ – bob schneider

quiet snow make me breathe deeply
and think about the blank poetry covering
the ground, so unopposed, now seeing
that miles and miles become one field.
oh, I wish that all could see how together
the weather brings us close —
an army that didn’t bleed, or, perhaps
one that bled white, and I,
I was prepared to surrender myself
or pickup and fight the fight
along with every flake:

‘grounded’ came the answer
of a whitened, icy land
whose little flakes, all different,
knew one another in repose
and whispered little whispers
of enchantment to the trees.
she knew no name
could be as fitting as the sixty
varying names of the Eskimos
who, too, sing songs of love
in winter (not of dying),
and thus, we welcome its
fallen with a welcome the
angels, strangely, would have met:
Come. Come and Dance,
and make this once brown dread
happy to meet your wet, cool
breeze vis-à-vis until someone
should happen to say,
’how fitting that we are warm
in our coats of down and fleece.’
and until, until then, we would gaze
our gazing eyes out across the soil
in their covered angeled wings,
and then, to one another,
and with tears upon our cheeks
as they freeze, we would cry
aloud. Aloud —
Yes, come. Come and be.

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