the low wool clouds
that burned blood
red in the sunset
changed in the darkening,
metamorphed, translated,
essentially evaporated
into solid crystals
gems that combined
into fat flakes
that we parochial kids
in Winter Buffalo
called Angel Dandruff
falling fat and slow
until the sharp
stars showed shivering
in black empty sky
here and now
you know the
ground in morning
is covered in snow
a blank page
bright as Dylan’s new day
awaiting the glyphes
of enigma poetry
writ by fur paws
and feather claws
and the blunt dumb
straight line boots
of too prosaic humans
Mr Shepley is a writer who lives and works in Sacramento. He has had around 120 poems appear in ink or pixel since 1997.
