Everything buried shall remain buried 

beneath the soft swales of shifting snow:

the planter, the grill, the broken bicycle.

One day accumulates on the next.

Inches after hours, feet after weeks,

until the world is a sharp lipped cornice

curled up against winter’s white mountains.

How inexactly these solitudes slough away.

How relentlessly they re-accumulate.

The ranks will rise, tied to ropes,

tied to roofs, white knuckled shovels,

eyes to windshields, hands to wheels,

plowing deep into the winter night.

Nothing but the sound of a storm

sweeping before it the new fallen snow…

and maybe three split shots hitting the water

before another fish sets the drag singing.