Somewhere in my soul
there is still snow
on an open field
in Vermont.
It is still
sunset silhouettes
of trees reaching
for pale sheet of sky
stretched thin above
little lives.
It is still
a little
red
shed
of animal bedding
and broken tools and pallets
we prop up like ladders
to reach the roof.
It is still
air glittery with
errant snowflakes,
relocating with the wind.
It is still
snow boots on a
frozen pond,
black-ice footprints
in the snow
and nowhere
to go.
It is still
snow angels
and frozen toes
and no one home
but you and me
and nowhere
to be
for days.
It is still.
Somewhere in my soul
there is still.