THE SAVAGE AIR

Whenever there is a blizzard
it gives us pause,
the world seems finite
and made from a single cause.

See them walk bowed and wrapped,
hidden by a hat. Here was a street,
here a garden. Did you pass
the door that should have been?

The wind and snow piles up--
the dust of bones--
the ash of passion--
scraps of paper without this poem.

Robert Klein Engler