
eleven degrees and snowing furiously the world is monochrome and hushed yet through the center there are guns and tears and red ruptures through winter airs there are last sighs and new strains of death and melting ice under bereft bears i try to hold it all but it slides through preoccupied fingers tea takes precedence in this arduous daily catastrophe my hope is falling through the snow to be plowed into the margins and i wonder as the weary world turns and turns will you find comfort in snow in hush in tea what solace will be left you, my children…
©Elizabeth Anker 2022
