A Treasury of Snow

by Bill Coyle

The cargo of cold white
in the red pickup that waits
beside me at the light
explained (if not away, quite)
by the truck’s New Hampshire plates.

*

Beautiful, but how,
after a lifetime of snow
did I still not know
a snowflake casts a shadow?
Maybe I did know. I know now.

*

Behind the snow lies
an invisible heaven:
migratory cries
tell us so, suggest even
our kind might find paradise.

*

Michelangelo
saw the statue in the stone.
I feel like I alone
can discern through all this snow
the car parked here not a day ago.

*

Lion at our back door,
who set you here, and what for?
Our upstairs neighbor,
I imagine? For good Feng Shui?
I like your white fez today.

*

Atop each flattened
picket-tip sits a fattened
white bird the weather
overnight put together
feather by crystal feather.

*

The treasury of snow,
one of them, in any case,
is out past Pluto,
whence comets come, whence they go,
on the margins of deep space.