Whether this
is what we hoped for, or deserve,
this is what we have.
Whether this
leads to the sublime, a disaster,
or something unimagined,
this is where we are.
Branches above dusted by snow
and roots below frozen in soil,
unconditionally held in (s)now.
Somewhere in their midst,
here we lie,
pretending and often wishing
to be apart from all this.
There will be no separation,
from any of this —