The eighth day of snow, and I’m going nowhere,
but watching icicles melt off the roof peaks.
And that is not intended as a metaphor–
as in, actual icicles melting off my roof,
and me watching them drip, drip,
(imagine fast dripping) does not symbolize
boredom. Although, it’s true,
I have memorized vast sections of Mozart:
Alla Turca and Fantasy in D Minor,
that fun section where you go back and forth
between D and F, while bopping out couplets
of A and F, and A and G, and A and E,
(wow, I just realized each has an A–
and that, while playing it, I was lost,
or blind to its simpler simplicities
and repetitions) like snow, or the forecast
for more, and everyone sharing the forecast
on social media, as if we all don’t know
it’s going to snow everyday, all day,
for as long as forecasters can see.
And I wonder how the aspen in front,
the one with three, thick trunks,
can bear being still for so long–
as if what is alive, is dead,
as if stillness has, finally, become a virtue.