Coming Snow

Apples, in the yard,
unbitten, frostbitten.

Cigarette, on the porch,
cradled, climbing, curling;
a tiny house on fire.

Clouds still flowering white
at night,
cold and buoyant.

I recall the coming snow,
the sharp tempest,
try to forget Mexico;
turquoise and Saltillo tile,
bright pop of papaya
on the tongue.

~