It’s cold enough for snow to settle
on lawn and roofs and streets.
It’s rare that even streets are white:
The ploughs take Sunday off.
White static foregrounds all around us.
Words like ‘muffled’ come
–and will go in time no doubt.
Peace in our time, no more.
Our time: This moment or perhaps
this day and night, no more.
The forecast has a warm front coming.
Snow will turn to rain.
Somewhere a new war is spawning.
It will send battles our way.
We will forget this peaceful moment
but for now, it’s here.