Curve Into Themselves

Line of snow banks
Pressed against the side of road;
A mark of winter.












Chilling bitter wind
Forces the plants to huddle,
Curve into themselves.









Snow plow ice block
Sculptured by side of the road,
Looking eternal.

So light and fluffy,
Snow pile has bent back the fence.
Such minuscule force.

With its mouth open
Mailbox, ajar, speaks mutely:
Emptiness--absence.

An icy stillness,
Even the birds are silent;
All sounds are frozen.

Snow picks up the sheen
Glistening on the snow crust.
Ice is everywhere.













On a mound of snow
Sun etches a sharp shadow;
Then, poof! It is gone.










Face down in the snow
Trash can is almost buried.
Will it disappear?