Snow falls heavy on my shoulders these nights, I feel (if I can say) Like a frozen Atlas shivering at the top of the world Bearing the weight of a thousand clouds, A thousand tears, None warm. Snow falls heavy on my head these nights, I feel (if I should say) As though I wear a crown cast in ice, Or just some weight in the shape of a crown, Without plating or pearls, Only encrusted with polar diamond, Engraved with the precision of a shallow tray freezer From the top shelf of a fridge That sits moaning and decrepit in the corner of my room. Heavier than gold Melting in daylight. Snow falls heavy on my heart these nights, I feel (though I shouldn’t say) Buried in ice Like Özti Living my last hours on figs and deer Having run up and down the mountain Time and time and time again, Before time, even. Pre-history neglects the hours of the shepherd Who wanders the mountains of a land yet unnamed. History neglects the hours of the reader, Lost to words and ink, Whose dreams play in black And white And white. Snow falls heavy on my eyes these nights, I see (if I can describe) Nothing but immaculate absence. Snow falls heavy on my hands these nights, I touch (though it isn’t true) What feels (if I can say) Like a million sorrows A million hopes A million dreams, wishes, and failures Wrapped and dropped To land in and among the others (Hopes, dreams, wishes, failures, wrappings, droppings) And be made into something new altogether. Snow falls gently on your head these nights, I see (if I may) Something I have yet to feel, see, or touch. Like the winds in the plains Or the light in space. I see you, indivisible and invisible: The Promethian driveway-shoveller, The un-worshipped Christ of blue-green salt. Snow falls softly on your eyes these nights, You see (what I can only imagine) More than a world of frozen flurry and flustered flakes. What cloud imagines their snow be made into snowmen? What eyes see ice as stone and homes and castles and thrones? Snow falls softly on the trees these nights, I feel (or bashfully assume) The pines outside hold only what they can handle And cradle the newborn snow in their boreal arms So softly, Like, well, Something only you can know. I can only guess. Snow falls softly outside my window these nights. So I feel, anyways. So it seems, anyways. So you tell me, anyways. So I believe you, anyways. Gently, each flake falls. Gently, each flake fades. Snow falls softly these nights. J.H Lee