And snow falls
like God
shaking
out his hair

little flakes
on the back of the shirt
a few on the comb
after it ran through the strands

still covering
the dull pate
where did they go
where did we go

how did we get here
this state
where we own
almost embrace

our foibles
our chinks
in what is now tarnished
armor

Whit Howland © 2020