Beware the melt, freeze, melt, freeze
dance of this new month.
Tears shed leave a translucent trace
as they dissolve. Beware the sun
not so low-riding across the sky,
teasing warmth soon interrupted
by a late hitting storm.
It’s the ice, not the snow, I curse—
the handwriting I can read, not
the scrawl bleeding in the margin.
Domino bones topple forward, not
backward, as another lahar drags
slurry farther down the mountain.
These scars: my geography, my home.