Other Things

What I would like to forget is the snow.
The way it does.
The manner in which it rides
On the black earth imitating backs of fish
Chumming in shallow haze.
I trample over the frozen words
Of the young deer on the road and
The brain’s slippery scrawl,
The coming of Summer, the light
Loose in the fields
For the love of other things
Which smoulder from
Shadows behind other trees.

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