Snow fell through
my window last night
to lightly kiss me on the cheek.

It was soft,
like the wings of a butterfly
brushing across white knuckles.

It was sharp,
like the memories I have of us
on that mountainside.

It was cold,
like this feeling in my toes,
my stomach, my heart.

How dumb it feels
to still make wishes
on every angelic clock reading.

Yet, if anything roots me to this Earth,
to this lifeforce,
it’s ill-directed hope.

So, I sit here,
watching a snowstorm
between leaves of my monstera,
hoping for a sign.

It’s beautiful —
the landscape so changed.
I would share it with you

if I had the right words to say
or the gumption to reach out
or the hope it would mean something —

anything.