late december

Late for geese, late for rain becoming snow
lightly falling first then softly freezing, lightly glazing

rooftops. The snow a soft approach until the grass stiffens
with a glistening crust. Not the drift, not the icicles like picks,
the digging out a snow wall to the car, not the hush

when streetlights stud the cloudcover. The sky’s a sink,
drained of color. Not what was expected but a mess
that keeps the roses flush, the mums clinging to the skirt

of the perennial. The accident of trees. The snow’s a relic.
I wait with faithful crows, their feathered vestment glinting
in the monstrance of the sun. The past is prodigal.