I’ve only just caught up
with everything that would have
lent some kind of significance
to this snow. Worms are turning
in the apples my thoughts produce
occasionally. Sometimes,
I wither along with them
once they’ve fallen.
And a melody comes
from farther up the road
to let me know that heaven is collapsible,
can be carried in the hand.
It’s a miracle you were ever around
to understand me, for even a minute,
how I can still reach out
and caress your cheek
in what some would write off
as a daydream. I like the way
all of this seems to unravel in the cold,
each thread a different color,
swaying wildly about
in the fiercely expanding dusk.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 