Where Everywhere Snow, There Grass

There was a patch of grass. There was snow
around the patch of grass. There was me.
I am not about the snow; the snow is not about
me. Although the snow surrounds the patch of grass,
the grass does not appear threatened. Predictable

all of this data is not. I have said nothing
of the sun and its location conversant to that
of the grass, nor how much grass, square-by-
square, there was, or of its velour quality, or
the sound it made when I stuck my foot on it

after a long winter. I thought: Rejoice.
There was no joy in the grass. The joy was in
me. I am not joy. I am a man, standing on the snow
admiring a square-by-square of grass
for just a moment. I am not just a moment to me.

 
F * all * O * day * G 

All day I wanted to tell you about the wall
of white just through the windows (I call it
our blanket of blankety blank) and how I know
it comes from snow forced away by a flossing
rain (whose lumps of light are there because we
believe them to be instead of see them. [See?])
squeezed in a 50° afghan of air [that dropped
on us all by surprise in this March and which
we’ve all been happy to see (and I mean see
as much as air can be seen)] but [and there
is always a but (like when you say “I’d like to
take a cruise  with you this time next year but. . .”)]
it [in the sense of a thing (this particular thing
being illusive)] matters [like, matters matters]
so [which upon if only I could add two more Ohs]
little [as in small within the grand scheme of
things (things being all else that is bigger; things
outside these margins; things being things
being things)] in all this molten white fog.