Snowy Days at Winter’s End
by John M. Tangel
The day is snowy and I’m looking out the window at
buildings and stoplights and the occasional
pedestrian walking puffed in muted layers through
muted sidescapes.
I’m six stories high. The roads are mostly white though
it’s now past noon. The wheel of the day has been
spinning and there is that gray slush that
grays our perfect white.
I feel sad looking out.
Somber. Like
the tampered snow.
Where are you?
I’m wondering, and
are you looking too?
I hope so.
Not that it should matter anymore. Soon
winter will end, and spring flowers new
will bloom in the rotting compost of
the love we thought would last.
You left my soil fertile. I hope akin
that I left yours.