At my table, Mark and Jill and Lloyd and David.
And large soft snowflakes falling gentle as mercy
on the yard, on the bare trees outside my window
and we're eating lovely sweet and succulent things,
and some with capers and laughing at our old foibles
born of hopes, of shyness and clumsy ambitions,
and chortling at the faux pas of long-gone friends,
the snow accumulating in gentle accumulations,
and we gleefully talking this Sunday morning away,
together again after a long time apart and now
the black lyrical tree limbs are outlined in snow,
pristine and marvelous, nature's graphic art,
black and white, limbs you loved to draw
and you still not here, though yes, today the snow
is a marvel, falling so peacefully—this snow
that isn't, will never be the snow of yesteryear.