Graves

Sometimes the snow falls

just so

that it shrouds the dying grass

in puffs of white.

When I trudge the gravesite

I try to remember how green it once was

but I can only see

its paleness.

Some insist it’s for the better

and continue to catch flakes on their tongue

as if nothing were wrong.

But they don’t know they’re catching the sky’s ashes.

They don’t know how the flakes’ coldness

entered my flesh,

and pierced my heart,

and now I struggle to remember the lively green

or believe we’ll ever leave this winter.