suddenly,
it’s winter again,
really winter,
and the snow
all fat flakes coming down
so fast, if you were driving at night
their blurred auras would come at you
with the same charisma of warp, light speed,
and you’re hypnotized to another place and time,
your mind no longer on the road,
and you think
about your father dying and
your mother dying, and picture
your son all snug in bed, dressed
in the soft deep blue of footy pajamas
with a rosy cheeked smile as he
breathes the slow in/out breaths
of slumber, grasping his stuffed pig
soft as his cheeks, joyful,
madly joyful as his smile, and
wonder and ache why you have to
say goodbye to anyone at all,
let alone
the ones you love
as dear as breath; and you,
only beginning the first steps
of middle age, sitting in a cheap pleather chair
chipped away in the seat
under a too direct heating vent
that dries your eyes and chokes
your throat, near a window, where,
outside
it snows this snow
around your melancholy knowledge―
the dark fact
that all life is fleeting
and love
is but a word
incapable of such emotion.

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