A Journal of Formal & Metrical Verse


i smoke this cigarette and watch the snow
fall blankly down to gather in thick drifts—
exhale to make a fog-like cloud that rifts
a space between the flakes—and i don't know

which particle is smoke and which is frozen
breath—married, they mingle and they shift
to cut a great black hole, swallowing, they lift
the downy fall, like curtains, drawn to show

the constellations' slowly moving reel.
my thoughts are simple as the sky is grey—
(la neige est belle, j'aime sa mode facile—
je trouve dans son silence certain la paix

a horn's blast shakes my reverie—not quite alone,
i've only ashes left—i turn towards home.

By Anna Rose Lawrence

Anna Rose Lawrence is a writer and musician and lives in western Massachusetts.