Don Russ

            —Of First Snow and "Last Things"

Any day goes gray, but only
a winter day so gray the scrim
of trees seems painted smoke,
those veils of distant snow

as still as this – the closer
snow – is slow and math exact.
A poem window in my mind
frames both for now:

a cold as old or older than
the sun – the fire-encoded ice
that waits to blaze another
round of days.

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