R***** at February



The snow at night turns blue, sparkles

between the two states of ice and art

as sweetly sings a sparrow near dark,

a moon side of us, a dusk distance

and she is definitely dying, we know this.

All of the water in the world spies

for her, steals color and in that

rainbow of teardrops, a breath is counted.

We each ask Allah to give her a year or two

from our balance as slaves might do,

bartering our beatings as if this will suffice,

as if that could stop all that is random,

as if the snow stops as it does for an hour

to give us time to wander home.