Snow is a Blanket Fort My Children Built

Matthew Miller

I wake to find it already falling.

Morning traffic
pulling the corners,
the weakest clouds
break, cannot cushion
hasty whispers.

Sighing, mouth wide to sky’s
silence, I crawl through
tangled arms, scaping
what has piled
to provide a way out.

Children despair over
what’s been buried.
All the knots and tucks,
labyrinthine beauty, a crystal
that could not be held.

I know they cannot imagine
the unique myriads building
in their own hands.