In waves, it arrived, breathing skin of
fog over water, whiteness rolling down
a mountain, settling, unsettling,
netting the canopy. Not like
smothering, like drowning, eyes behind
its eyes, a dead tree rooting,
rotting, inside. A witness.
It wasn’t death it wanted to consume
as much as air, everything
that breathed, it breathed.
Seethed violence. Seemed almost sentient
when it blushed. Hard to say what
it wanted except more. Always.
It was nothing if not determined. At night
it was clear it had something resembling
a mind: you could see the worming white
roots of its dream. It shook and woke, it
was still milk-fat and thick with calm. It
reeked of genteel pestilence. It lied, it hid
in plain sight. It waited and raged.
Which only leaves what it left
(it never left)— freezing slow,
each day a little less, this last
late snow turned slush.