It’s snowing in a way that reminds me
of people who rarely complain.
I imagine the oldest woman eating bread: silent,
half asleep, softly chewing mngna, mngna, mngna.
I am thankful for snow
and the black stillness of evergreens
the way they line up on the street
here in my New England.
I have made it mine, the way
a young girl finds someone’s lipstick
and makes it hers.
It doesn’t matter that it’s half used
it matters that it’s lipstick and she wears it
down to her chin.