snow – David Hamilton

I’ve long been impressed that the Inuit are said to have 20 or more words for it, and we but one. So fresh, so promising, so lovely—at first. So quickly crusted over, old and grimy, adorned with dog shit—like any cliché. Snow, so, no, now. Sow, too, but forget the pig… ‘So’ is ‘sew’ yet snow ‘sows’ more than ‘sews’ the mind; at least so I prefer to think. At least while it’s snowing. Those 13 blackbirds… I wrote aRead more