Remains of the (snow) Day

The world is white.

Not in purity but in fog;

not in ethnicity but in shroud.

I cannot see farther than ninety metres.

What was, yesterday, a confused swirl

crystalline fliers swarming the city stage,

is today an airborne wall, a shoveled pile,

barricade to progress, invitation to stall.

I must write or I will suffocate.

Tasks, duties, competing priorities

swarm and swirl my mental stage

I cannot see farther than ninety minutes.

Do the next thing, Elisabeth says,

but a fragmented list, of competing tasks

in opposing directions requiring a decision

at every turn, makes even the next thing unclear.

So I write words, lists, appeals and apologies.

The justifications and explanations are articulate

and persuasive in my head, pillowed soft

in white goose down.

where I promptly fall back to sleep.