Quill & Parchment:Snowbound

Snowbound
by David Slavin

I tell lies.

Tell myself they are little
perfect geometric shapes;

intricate, unique,
they glint like zircons.

Tell myself they are white
as snow on branches

that slump, freighted,
under a lucid sky.

There is a house, set apart,
cut off by fences.

Far from the highway, the place
at the dead end of a rutted path.

Here my lies collect,
gather in drifts,

fill in the potholes,
overtop the rails.

They erase what separates me;
a crisp white sheet on a rotted porch.

Now a blanket that billows up the siding,
obscures the windows,

rises past the eaves,
buries me

where I lie.

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