the air is warm in the only way it could be
of the year's first snow

sounds of dripping moisture are inescapable
as each flake falls
through the hands of an artist's unfathomed sensitivity
Settling on shades and textures
breathing resonance of an original's delicacy
they suffocate with the inevitability of a delicacy's decay

write a poem
yes, please
write poetry

suddenly, a world without the opaque shading is a fond memory,


like warm toes


and fingerpainting.

(even slower now...)

and a world of yesterday's skies seeps into the sidewalks
each drop dripping from its canvas
makes everything seem precarious

© Dan Karp