To the canyon that came so close
to touching me, I was nothing.
What good was a truck gearing down
to go up to the snow?
Still, the walls of rock held themselves
at arm’s length to make room.
A narrow hall. That wallpaper,
lichens splattered on basalt …
a bedroom carved out around me.
Snow, where had you gone,
taking the road with you?
Where was the door?
The creek had something to say
on this, but not to me.
To the rocks the meltwater tumbled,
to the willows that reddened
at each wet word,
the radio crackled and spat.
And still Willie Nelson sang
in a whiny fuzz.
The pines strained under the weight
of all the dumb sad songs made one.
Love gone to seed,
love buried under snow—
where was a snowbird to feed?
A flock of juncos flung itself
like a lost scarf over the last weeds.
Mist coming down the mountain
to meet someone halfway—
I took off a glove. I lay down
and played angel. The snow held on,
a body of water that wouldn’t melt.
Snow, let go. It’s late,
You are cornmush. You are cold.
Let me cover you with this white sheet.
No one will know.
—Debora Greger, “To the Snow”
Image via Danniel Schoonebeek
