Snow so very

Small so welcome,

A whited tree

Comes to me.

 

These are islands,

Imperiled generations

So very small

In their mid-air,

Mid-oceans of air.

 

Fever stirs in the snow.

My mother steps outside

Into 1919, and cold air

Closes her green eyes.

A glass breaks somewhere.

 

Small as snow,

Death is a window

Open at the beginning,

Open to the very end.

 

Just before the song,

And you can hear it,

Though only a few,

And those are reflected on lake water

  like beautiful ghosts

Always just at sunrise,

Do.

 

Tell the truth exactly, it will make

  no sense.

Click. Click.

Only a few, as in a wedding party

  drowned in sight of the white lakeshore.

Every church drives Christ into the weeds.

Earth is not old.