snowed in

God powders the ground
with cool wet chalk
until the drawings are gone

the details blurred,
the edges soft
and we sink into darker thoughts
of the days since the world died.

the gray-white haze
obscures our view
of houses down the street
of cars coming at us
of the children laughing
as they ride red sleds down
almost-hills
toward once-we-knew roads.

I say,
"You know where the shovel is."

You smile,
"somewhere
somewhere,"
vaguely you gesture,

"out there."