Until it Isn’t

There is snow,

with the grip

of a mountain gorilla;

it just won’t let go.


There are crazed canines,

that wrestle and groan,

for hours,

and probably don’t stop,

when we are not around.


There are people

who say goodbye,

and never return.


There are things

right in front of me,

and inside of me,

that will never make sense.


The pursuit of sense,

makes the least sense,

of all.


Dear Carol,

snow is snow,

until it isn’t.



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