There is a light snow falling, as I wake up at four in the morning.
Tiny, pinhead sized flakes falling, in the night without any wind.
I watch them fall, wrapped in a comforter on the couch.
The illusion of safety.
What might I find when the sun comes up again?
This ugly and depressed part of town given the illusion of beauty
By the layer of glistening whiteness that can cover the world’s sins?
Might I believe it?
The snow falls, and I drift in and out wakefulness and back into dreams.
A bit of beauty in a world on fire, and the place in my mind
Where there is still tenderness and time and a touch on my face.
Can any grace still find us?