Snow falls onto the shoulders of the world, here,
where it's too high to see anything but everything;
it piles on us all. This is why you can't stand.

There's a puddle on the kitchen floor waiting
to soak into my socks when I wake early
to scrub the dishes in the quiet of her sleeping.

I will carry this with me all day, moldering
in my shoe, thawed but not
thawing.