A Change of Costume

In the night, snow falls.
Not much, just enough
to fill in
between the stalks of grass,
and cover the tops of tombstones.

A blanket they call it,
but that would be a lie,
more a foretaste of hell, which is, I believe,
cold,

a never ending cold,
with no promise of spring,
that creeps into your bones
and never leaves,

But this snow is in the here and now,
a brief thing, transitory and beautiful
a reminder that each season has a life

after life.
That they never die.
They only dance a few moments
before changing their costume.

About this poem

Life changes. Duh.

I am not feeling very deep this morning. But it snowed yesterday and it’s beautiful. If I can’t get a good poem out of a snowfall, I’m not a poet.

The picture was taken in Dorset, Vermont.

Have a blessed Sunday!

Tom