Equinox

First, the snow does,
as your favorite
song would do to your heart
when it surprises you
on the radio. You wake up
to see a white sky
loafing all over your backyard.
You make small snow-bombs
with your fists, and watch as
the sunbeams plummet
into orange lines of futons,
too little to create
shadows.

Then, mud becomes,
the way the podcast could
interrupt your favorite song
to announce the death of a city.
The snow isn’t all white, then.
You grow tired of it,
you complain about the cold winds
and the short mornings. You
stare with brooding eyes at
the caliginous skies. You search
for the early signs of spring.

Today was cold,
the sky
was as dark as
they come,
and I couldn’t ever

replace you.