The snow is only a paper snow today, only a
story of snow outside the window, and the snowdrifts
I pass in the hallway are only paper snowdrifts.
Today, though, there’s imaginary sunlight.
I bask in it in bed from ten til noon, a new man
in a new year under the same old imaginary sun.
The sky today is a painted sky
and the imaginary sun is only pinned to it
the way a child pins a paper dragon to a bedroom wall.
Outside, I can see the air moving. I watch it
through the window, but it remembers the snow
is only paper and rushes away, forgetting to bite.
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