such flakes

they can’t possibly be gathering
all on their own

mass extinction

all the empty beds
standing on end

wetlands in winter

I crush another cathedral
with every step

clouds in our airspace

and all this immigrant snow
clinging to our land

spelling out fences

the immaculate ignorance
of snow

gone back to woods

all that’s left is location
location location

ridgetop forest

the moss grows fat
on the milk of clouds

winter fog

bare branches turn
green again

that faint overlay

on every cellphone photo—
my own face

boulder field in snow

its only other crop
besides lichen

turkeys in snow

each footprint resembles
a bird in flight

bitter cold day

crushing dried horsebalm
for the scent of lemons