Few things are quiet

as night snow:

there is the uninvited

past, sharp and  

certain as geometry

when geese fly;

there is age coming in slow

on a stinging tide;

there is sleep spinning

thin as blown glass.

All things snow remain

silent here;  cars slip

inaudibly to the shoulder,

children doze, bedded

in the back seat

like sled dogs.

Down at the lake,

power went out

days ago; behind curtains

candles are lit, flashlights

doubling in the downstairs

mirror. Belly to back,

your damp breath

lies on my feathered

nape; like night snow,

you fall everywhere,

mute, ubiquitous.

Few things are quiet

as your still regard.