Inside Snow

 

Inside snow

the town swaddled and quieted.

A giant comforter releases its down

 

settling the arguments of cars,

passing gravel-grinder aside,

 

settling the chatter of lingering leaves

and questioning dogs left muted

behind curtained windows.

 

Lamb’s wool

blankets branches, portico, steeple,

mailbox, my face as any other thing.

 

Only red berries proclaim

their right to specialness

here.  Inside

 

this vast padded room

the quarrelsome mind gets lost

and then forgets

 

what was after all

not so important.