Driving slowly on this winding mountain road
hands clutch the steering wheel, tires creep along whitened asphalt
as snowflakes fall like shredded tissue paper
flying by the thousands toward my windshield,
As if the road passes through a tunnel filled with souls
seeking their way past me, each hurriedly moving onward to some destiny,
their random motion frenzied in proportion to the brevity of their existence;
wipers sweep them away rhythmically, clearing space for vision.
On morning nursing home rounds, she sits tilted upright in a hospital bed,
white hair like snow, pristine through decades of winters gone by,
fore-locks curling, bobbing slightly in time
to her own story of falling on city streets.
From bus-stop to bank on city blocks measured by an old woman’s legs,
the cold of winter extracts its toll like a greedy troll under the bridge,
robbing once youthful thighs of strength,
legs aware now of new limits and uncertain arrival.
Swept in a vortex toward a center of solitude
with awareness of time coming to a close,
the hurried passage of snowflakes in a storm
move on to destinations no longer.