january patterns

the days
add up like snowflakes
that land
on a sidewalk
leading to
an abandoned home.

here,
there is no shovel,
no footprint,
not even a hand
scratching
for a snowball,

but there is always some sound
in some distance
yelling
at us,
tickling
us,
poking at a center
that we hardly remember
even being there.

at some point
even the those gods
must believe in this.

everything
that we are
is either ice
or
that one hour of a sun ray
that melts everything
into something
a little more fluid.