Inside, the light reflects against the window,
Hiding the unknown darkness.
I don't know where I am or why I stare at it
Or if the dawn will bring the snow.

Outside, the night's sharp cold almost burns the skin.
The sky is blank, unstarred.
I'm aware only of myself and the universe.
The dawn will bring the snow.

Inside, time presses like a ticking clock against the wall
Or shines green neon of this age.
Slowly I let my mind perceive its drift.
Dawn fails. It has begun to snow.

Outside, silence falls in muffling, achronistic flakes.
Cloaking the early crocus.
I find solace in the evanescent whiteness,
In the purifying splendor of the snow.

Inside, the clank and hum of hidden mechanical things
Churn out a mocking climate.
My thoughts skitter as on a griddle.
Where's the comfort of the falling snow?

Outside, birds twitter in muted melancholic voice;
Already the roofmelt drips.
Am I a part of this grey-white scene,
Or a foreign human speck lost in the snow?

Inside, books, photos, fading memories in ill-kept albums
Clutter a patchwork past
That I now can scarcely cling to.
Screened light fluoresces thought-waves of the snow.

Outside, trees trace charcoal sketches in a sky
Filtered by thinning clouds.
How I wish to fly in uncivil spaces,
Abode only of cold-wintered nature and the snow.

Inside, hot food and the glow of supper table chatter
Spark superficial cheer.
But I speak in alien accent.
The conversation tangents fast to, away from snow.
 
Outside, the time-god has returned in blackened garb.   
Crystals tumble softly down.
They touch my cheeks like showered sparks.
Will next dawn's pale, dim birth again bring snow?