A spring snow could clearly be falling on the book of love.
Soft flakes hit the heat of terrifying dutiful expressions.
Tinkling bells freshly coated with a soft cool blanketing.
Nothing can be written to detail the order of untimely blizzards.
Our own timing occurs when we behold eternity for what it is.
I consider the ancient documents we depend on.
Living thoughts becoming dry ink, kicking up emotions, scaring the obedient.
I think of a snow filtering down in celestial order.
One gentle coating, then the heart-melting and eye-tearing that arrives when our salvation
is buried in redolent purity.
There should be no waywardness stacking up in the drifts, which might misdirect us
who are looking and wondering.
Snow shovels come out scraping the Corinth sidewalks at the first sight of what falls on us.
I expect some weakening of pressure to allow this broad dumping.
The unequaled tempest swirls inside of our red eternal rivers whenever we look.
Nothing new is to be had.
Nothing I have clung to can continue blocking the coming of falling love.
Say the only words that cannot be written and we will be white.