The snow that began the night before fell far into the day, 
leaving just enough time as the moon rises,
so we can take in some of that utter whiteness 
before the cars become unshovelled and their leavings get stirred in 
with all the ugly kinds of mess humans can make.
But for now, the snow tops the neighbor-evergreens
like a row of strollered infants in sun bonnets 
sleeping softly at the park; streets still glitter
where the plows haven’t hit bottom
and left a coat of ice for tomorrow morning’s melting;
no one’s out except for us who had been house-bound
and stir-crazy for a night and day of too much TV, too much wine,
and the never quite suppressed fear built into us humans 
that we’ll never get anywhere again.
But here on the street the air seems cleaner somehow
that way it gets after some little cold sun
warms everything just enough to help our lungs work easy
and make us swear we’ll swear off drink 
and so much time in the great indoors. 
You say you want to try to get a picture of it all—
the moon, the street, the snow caps, the air, the evergreens—
and you climb to the top of the pile of snow 
some shoveling’s made into a modest mountain.  
Always the arbiter of what’s impossible,
I’d tell you it can’t be done, but you’re determined
and I wait patiently at the door 
instead of rushing inside where I’d prefer.
There’s no danger out tonight—by now plenty of moonlight—
even the raccoons that get more brazen each night 
are tucked beneath the porches and into our basement wells.
I too want to take it all in, as you angle for that picture—
destined never to be looked at again, 
you know I would be happy to say. 
But mine would just be you
and I will keep it in memory’s well where
what’s truly impossible might finally find the place 
where it can permanently reside.