of spring tomorrow

no matter the fall
or volume of snow to feign our minds
into a belief of the clean white slate
the geisha mask of clean white beauty
melts inevitably.
spring opens the door for winter and
careless refuse randomly strewn
yellow and brittled by enduring yesterday sun
waterlogged by snowmelt
again finds our periphery
and presents itself as new.


within the ninety-three million miles
of space between space
of real estate without speculators
an open house would be
of no use:
we are one lot of wayward property
with a heated core fighting the cooling
crust where we too are fighting
sometimes loving.


still we can boast nostalgia
and speak of that
skinnydipping swimming hole of young dad of
grandma's jarred quince jam pectin of
old growth wood tremendously patient of
that night sky and its dusting of white sand
to remind you that somewhere
our future is already our past
and somewhere snow has yet to exist.