The tire trail’s history is buried once more—
Silenced by another cover of snow.
By morning, it will blend and
Lose its soft white innocence
To cars wanting to have their
Way with, with white chastity
As the snow sinks into the underground
Of ice, of greyness and mud giving
Us an intermission till Sunday.
Already ice dams are forming
Leaving no way for the exhaust
And my clothes waiting
To be washed.