i have just come in from walking
the slushed paths of my school;
they were littered with the soft greying entrails of the snow,
which was still falling and drifting into my face.
what would you say about such a day? which of its aspects
would you bequeath me, clutched
and released onto my head.
your will, furnished
as it may be with such snowy scrawls.
the tenderness of the approach. the unceasing white.