JB Mulligan
SNOW
The soft distant call of geese,
the muted hiss and rip
of a car in passing.
The crisp crepitation
of a plastic bag
an old man carries home;
as he comes closer,
the waxy crunch from his boots.
Saturday morning.
Nowhere to rush.
The world is bleached to white,
broken by streaked brown branches,
distant houses.
Life comes in music,
falls note by note,
accumulates.
I bury myself
while the wind prays softly.
Date of Birth: 1/9/51 Location: Washingtonville, New York Email: frastus@frontiernet.net Publications: Freezone Quarterly, Clay Palm Review, Troubadour, Cyber Oasis Mandrake Poetry Review Chapbooks: Stations of the Cross, This Way to the Egress
