not

this isn't the first snow - it isn't

the one we spent at the bus stop together, sharing 

hand warmers and wishes for the bus to come,

which, eventually, it did

melting the frosty road beneath it

Inspired by the poem 'Fog' by Carl Sandburg.

He comes quietly, night after night,

soft four-toed footprints in the frosted grass.

He rolls over, and over, stretching

i would like to write a psalm made of salt dedicated to whomever Lot’s Wife really was.

for people cannot be made of perfection

and people cannot be made to never hold grudges. what if