Everybody should be quiet about old snow.
It is not a problem to be solved.
Let it lie there without getting all shivery.
Don’t make much of it.
It is not necessary to invent a sunny spring day,
Or to suggest that new-fallen snow is
Any more beautiful.
Old snow is not an opportunity to expound
On dirtiness, or dog turds on top, or dead leaves,
Or twigs reaching for a new season’s warmth.
Leave the metaphors, rhymes and stanzas, for poems.
Don’t make anything with words.
See snow with the exact precision that you would
Check out a basket of laundry.
There is no need to weep into a handkerchief
About six more weeks of winter,
Or to get emotional about a pair of socks,
Or a cotton tee shirt.
The panties are not there for you to get aroused,
Or get dreamy-eyed about a summer vacation
At the sight of Bermuda shorts.
Old snow is old snow.
Don’t think about what lies beneath.
Old snow is nothing but information,
Not art or science to be melted with noble intentions.
Don’t photograph it and post it to Facebook
For the gasps and sighs of friends,
Like you work for National Geographic.
Sit down on the wet, quiet disorganization,
Polite and present. Stop outrunning yourself.
Simply sit until you lose your capacity to speak,
And forget about what kind of crazy you are.
God had no words for his boy’s death.
He couldn’t watch or comment on it.
He just waited for him on the other side.