No Snow Now, But You Know How Snow Swerves

You ask yours. I’ll ask my own.
Beasts from out of time fall in.

They’re furred. They change. They don’t pulse.
They keep no hours, no brisk ticks,

No long days, no moons that wane.
They burst. They’re tart. They’re so sour

They fume like limes just a bit
Touched with soft spots, warmed in sun.

In your hand, they’re dense as globes
And feel as if they held time.

Yes, you can palm and hide them,
But once you grasp them, they’re gone.

So, now’s when I have to ask
You, did you think to ask? No?

Look out there—no beasts, no fur.
The sky’s one dark, white blur. Snow.