first, through a pinhead-sized hole in the ceiling,
then squeezing through
a lightning-shaped crack in the wall.
Flakes gather like sawdust, & you grow enamored
with their frigid acrobatics each time you exhale
these rapid-fire puffs of air.
Soon the kitchen counter’s
shrouded by several inches of it, a multiplication
of wintry openings through which it magically comes.
Snow blankets the sofa
& the bed, rugs, & television.
Your dog shakes it off but is buried by successive coats.
Outside, the snow’s stopped falling; but inside,
it continues drifting down,
insistent, relentless,
until everything you own sports a skin of frost.
You’d call for help but can’t locate the phone,
this interior blizzard
blinding your efforts
of finding the door; then, as quickly as it began,
it stops, melting away, becoming the damp press
of a fading memory,
though deep within your veins,
you feel the pinprick of each separate snowflake
& tremble with the imprint of its chill.

Originally published in White Wall Review 41 (2017)