Pinless Hand Grenades

Sideways snow drifts

strangely across walking paths

where the ghosts of shoes

are imprinted, layered beneath

varying sheets of snowdrift,

as if shoes could rain.

My pants and jacket collect

antique dust particles

blown horizontally

from the west,

small slivers of my nose

and face numbing from

constant wind pressure

as flakes like icy candle shavings

strike exposed skin,

melting instantly, their disappearance

triggered like pinless hand grenades.

My motion is amplified in nature’s

quietude where the sky’s growth

and ground’s diminution extend and meet

while snowflakes continue making

little sparkling, fizzing noises

like fireworks of purity, marking

an occasion without flags.

Behind windows, under warmth,

flakes resemble cars speeding

down blustery highways

as a driver in goggles squints

above a leather wheel at

the road’s shifting obscurity.

And later shovels and plows

like dinosaurs, novel and extinct

until their use becomes necessary,

will clear this intrusion

and only tomorrow’s

bleak stillness and subzero

temperatures will remind us

of this attack.

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Pinless Hand Grenades

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