Virgin Snow

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.

         bobbi 2019

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