Years
all the boulders are arrested
from their rolling. the snow,
the angle of the mountain
forbids it. spindle-hag scrub
scratch out an odd cuneiform
on the sky. clouds weep
for no reason as a little melt
funnels down, ice water
trickling fresher than needles
in our throats. the taste earns
us a summer of forgetting
the sense of snow
