The Weight of Falling Snow

I love the winter wind

that burns in me, while outside

the eaves are powdered down with perfect snow—

like an eagle’s skull dried and crushed to dust

then scattered over the gables

to warn the other birds;

a loved one releases

the contents of an urn in the wind—

cold ash curls and eventually ends.

In the winter, alike

each ache or breeze beneath our skin

will burn until the season’s over.

W. Oliver Hunt