Not every storm looks like a storm
Sometimes the storm is clean, white,
polite
You can almost imagine a warm
tip of the hat,
shaking sleet off the brim
But then
it gathers
on streets, on homes, on hearts,
a shield of ice, a vice,
a chill that sees through you,
that encases, chases the bone,
a weight
slow-grown, sudden-felt,
that buries a world of color
under the boot of purity
which
pretends to be snow
but
at the end of the day
is too hard and too cold
to be mistaken
for an angel
Written January 25, 2026
