The snow comes again as I ride the train, not heavy, not
yet, perhaps never, yet there, flicking against the window as the train rushes
south along the rails, too early for accumulation, just a recollection of a
storm already passed and melted, and over time, regardless of what we suffer
now, will vanished, too, lost in memory, the way most storms are, our lives
always painful at the moment, then not at all, we clinging to the bedsheets of
memory that still please us, when all else – even the most acute – loses its
edge, snow on the window gone with the next warm sun, while what we treasure,
what we dig up again and again from near and distant past, all we wished had
happened, this warmth before and after the chill, still alive inside us.
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