Where There Is No Hope There Is Calm

On the warfront a soldier runs
his filthy fingers across his filthy lapel.
The ground gives under his weight.
(A blizzard calm beyond repairs.)
He gives
                in
                the snow
gives in
                to the snow
being       snowed
                              on
and on.
(They were dressed
up, always, as to meet a great tragedy.
They wore a trademark doom.
What made the soldier
kneel—the ills or the rash lifting
of them.)
                In the spring, in spring,
geese peck at the small mouth
of a sun amidst the clown-
white of the last snow patch.
Wherever you are, stay there.
Snowmelt pools, darkens
the path I took up scot free. Here—
I will stay. Same winter
or not.