Harvey S. Mozolak
it snowed last night
(the “it” less personable than divine
and even less able and plural than clouds)
but across the paper white
making of the night’s bed
while we were roofed and sleeping
it topped and smoothed all that could be seen
helped by the moon hung with a wide yawn
though not completely necessary
it seems
(again there is an “it” awake and working)
that a small creature
not the usual deer whose arc
of prints are out beyond the porch beam
walked to our door and returned again
to the white beyond indoor distinctions
asking in?
inquiring of our warmth and safety?
looking for some dropped chewable thing?
or searching for the “it”
that came even more quietly
but covering darkness with a lightness
that reveals most all the hidden
except for what
it is
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