I wake up to snow falling steadily,

from a dream of kissing friends and lovers kissing friends.

The snow seems to say: Does it matter? There is no history. 

Or not one that cannot be erased.

It's the steadiness of the falling––rhythmic, endless,

like watching the water drip off the roof into Maria's dog's bowl,

too big an infinity for your mind.

When I read the old words, I can't help but sift through them for the grit,

the flakes of gold, the hidden meaning like a threat among threads untangled.

I cannot reread without waiting to see if more years have brought new clarity.

I'm slow to everything today, Hilary says to you,

I want to be slow. Slow in the snow.

You watch the snow out the window as it falls,

telling you there is no history, but the falling,

the slow accumulation of so many fast movements.