Ministry of Snow ~ Abigail Carroll

Listen: someone
is scissoring the clouds, snipping

the weather
into a dazzling squall of tiny white

vowels. The hills
have become an undulating clause,

by the going under of the light,

the distant hoo
of an owl’s lonely psalm. What

you once loved
about a dress—the delicate grammar

of its swoosh—
you have come to love about the snow:

the way
the pointed ice-ferns lisp the air,

the yard into a stark, unrippled

the forest into a thousand intertwining

Shhh—this is the sky unknitting itself,

wrapping you
in a baptism of cold, the monologue

of the wind
publishing its feathered rhetoric

across the roll
and dip of the field, the frozen cat-

tailed marsh.
A cardinal. A buckthorn. A sentence

of red berries
interrupted. You have entered

a kingdom
of unknowing—Holy is the sound

of forgetting.