Poems Snow Falling By Marianne Boruch January 19, 2026
in spite of love, the history of is or is not . Toward dread , darkness though dawn could be my guess, snow morphing to hardship, delight, mindless over and over. You forget but I forgot so long ago. What does a single flake know of its big/little fate? A very cold microscope might seek out each never-the-same beauty. Snow’s only choice: freeze. Or melt and flood. But falling means right now back to prehistory where human isn’t a thing yet, nor glass born of fire. The making’s done, a canvas rolled up, flown across an ocean that shares its infinity of vivid, all blues, reds, shadow, light, and wow— look at that!—I’m stunned. Genius opens its very few colors, the body bent to paint that way, the arm no longer knows itself, nor the hand a hand, nor the brain how to think. As a child, I practiced small ways to jump time and lose reason, grew blank enough for snow-in-July! In that god-awful heat, I invented iced-out stre...