Late-Winter Missive

The snake goes up and down,
And around,
All over the place.
The trees by its side raise their long,
Bare, thin fingers
Up to the sky,
Waiting for a drop of sunlight
Or asking for a bit of rain.

It is winter here.
The glass of the windbreaker is cold
— As is it supposed to be —
It makes my fingertips hurt through the gloves at first;
The ice melts,
And slips down the glass.
It makes it cry.

The snow piles up on top of the fragile grass,
Like a blanket made out of bulky wool;
The leaves suffocate in it.

I wonder who's stronger;
Is it the grass?
It'll grow again after winter has passed.
Is it the snow?
It falls down on all of us,
But it'll melt after winter has passed.

The tress pass
As fast as the drivers choose to make them move.
If you look up, you'll notice
The moon follows them
Like a big, bright eye
That'll never close
As long as
I
Am alive.