Proof of gelid gust dusts all we see—
the fence-lines, the avenue, the cars half-buried,
the scatter of November’s leaves
now sealed beneath a stilling plea.
What survives survives by yielding: branches bow,
the eaves let fall their weighted load
in muffled thuds along the yard and walk—
an elemental treaty now.
The world composes its reply
to summer’s claim and autumn’s boast.
No cardinal law, no thunder-host
proclaims what drifts down from the lead-grey sky,
yet everything it touches seeks
to answer why it must comply—
the wild rose hips, the window frames,
the question lingering in its wake.
By morning all dispute is moot.
The snow has made its argument
without a word, without assent,
soft-covering the curb and root,
the path we thought was permanent,
the streets where we were confident
we’d marked our necessary route.
Northcoast Antiquarian 