Sunday

Migrant



A large snowstorm came,
conquered a few long days
and has now left land

for the sea.

Sugar spun drifts left behind
wrap the edge of hillsides
eat all embankments and cry
weepy icicles tears
mourning the great migration
of which they will not be part.

An ancestral race, the snow, now lies
dying as deer stamp a code-written
text across the  white meadow, an ode

to the sea.