Snow lets
us leave footprints,
That, like memories, slowly fill and change
Until we finally melt away
Have
you ever noticed the color of a night snow sky in the city?
The night does not reflect bright in silvery white, nor glimmer with
fuzzy gray.
It glows with a weak, eerie ruddiness.
Maybe the color emanates from the taillights of a thousand commuters
creeping through the icy streets.
Maybe it grows from the thoughts of a thousand lonely souls.
A malignant sky, ready to hemmorage at any moment.
My
Uncle Don has lung cancer.
He's finishing his sentence.
He's dying, and already dead.
