By A. Gagliardi
White! With severe sun
screams streams of lights into my eyes.
Snow snugs up against the house like
a comforter on a newly, made bed.
White marshmallow fluff
so high I can hardly see over it as
I gaze across the cheek-high, frozen meadow;
walking the shoveled gauntlet
with eyes tearing from the glare.
White on white -
Deep enough to loose yourself;
Silent enough for thorough listening;
cold enough for death.
White flakes, leisurely descend from
the too-bright morning
like tiny soldiers muffling all sound,
bivouacking into the space
where I should be walking
on my way toward school.
White for ages; white
for blocks I cannot fathom;
for miles I cannot see;
for years I cannot know.
I hear only my own thoughts
echoing loudly with the snow.
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The Trees Are Frosted
By A. Gagliardi
The trees are frosted, coated,
crowned with snow like top hats.
The wind whispers as they shed
snow like so much lingerie.
In the still of the night
they listen and sigh to each other.
They stretch and groan
crackling in the darkness;
mumbling their muted memories
like a doorman selling secrets to his cabbie.
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