Quietly powdering over New England,
settling on gables, and covering lintels,
coating the tarmac of parkings and squares
steadfast in heralding winter’s affairs,
shrouding the sinews of spring that have wizened,
freezing the hearts that were heedless of reason,
twirling their way past the vane and the steeple,
noiselessly drifting from branches to people —

snowflakes — white imps — dance the dance of insouciance.
What was once heartbreak now feels almost soothing:
images quenched by a transient shroud,
spectres of days on a merry-go-round.
Haunted by them, by a soft, wilful echo
of a beguine, a long play vinyl record,
I sense the steps and the twirl in a cadence,
phantom of tenderness — wistfully fading.

photo by Yelena Kadeykina, edited and published with permission

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