It’s the first day of March here in Kansas City,
and there’s a few inches of snow on the ground.
The temperature is around 30 degrees,
the sky is cloudy and overcast.
Rays of light from the nearest star
are illuminating half of my Mother’s face,
tearing the gray mist of the air to shreds,
touching each fleeting and perfect crystal
of frozen H2O
with all the tenderness and passion of Krishna,
breathing life into the earth,
dancing with the pine trees like so many virgin maids,
their ballroom gowns translucent white and swirling;
playing and leaping
and pouring like Mosi-oa-Tunya
into my astonished eyes.