Driving Back to Morriston

My father wrote about the snow,
and the storm I was born to.
I am driving back to Morriston.
The road is roadless;
with wasps, it seems, reeling down,
numinously white, pure, and
sparking mystery,
before coming down here,
settling.
It seems it’s not coincidence that
tonight I turn a year older,
again, in the thousand-year old snow
written moments ago.

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