Between Two Rivers

On the weather.

Suppose this were the inverse: the globe 
tilted on its head and all the white ash—what 
one wishes to call snow—falling through this aqueous
world and collapsing onto the orbital arc of glassy sky. Or 
if not ash, then a dance of petals deceased and disfigured: 
dirty flowers, once. This, too, is a desire deferred for those 
still searching for water where dust defines the stuff of dreams, 
as when we tell ourselves time and time again to develop, when 
what we need, truly, is to give ourselves back to the earth. Bury 
these monuments to the present, bend the steel 
back into the soil, that the future 
will awake and say: yes, we are still alive, which is 
to say: we are alive enough, and the snow is falling still.