The sleeping snow steals the dark that the night
forgets to hide. The day, despite
the glow, stays under her blanket, dumb
in the cold. The wind refuses to strum
his melody. He wants to incite
the frosted-blue spruces to boredom. They invite
me outside. Should I go? The hush of the light
seduces my naked feet, soon numb from
the sleeping snow.
I stagger to the silent street, not quite
aware of where it begins. You can’t fight
a trillion white eyes. Each frigid crumb
draws me. It’s like dancing on pond scum.
At the end of the lane, I bow, and bite
the sleeping snow.
Marc Berman hails from Paterson, New Jersey. He holds degrees from Columbia College and the University of Pennsylvania. His poems have appeared in various journals.