Maybe if I live long enough
I will find out why, upon hearing barking from around the corner
I think about becoming.
Honestly though, I don't think a life,
as joyous and long and exuberant as a life might be,
could ever be enough to answer that question.
But to come to the beginning of an understanding
as to why each snowflake seems to move so slow
but when you focus on one of them,
one seemingly lazy dancer in the whole,
it suddenly seems to zoom so fast
catching the light of the street lamp and
turning into a comet.
Some sort of beginning of an understanding here
might be reached before you die.
Meanwhile, there's the weirdly lit color of the sky,
as if the sun were escaping the day's snowfall
at something less than its infamously fixed speed.
Meanwhile there is the memory of whatever it was I saw in the clouds
the day I landed here.
Meanwhile there is the memory
of laughter on a bench, probably uprooted by now.
The bench, not the laughter, of course as
I'm pretty sure there is no uprooting laughter.
Just like there's no uprooting the barking
from around the corner.