Ou sont les nièges d’antan?
All sixty summers long the unseen snow, drawn in and out of a smoke-grey cloud, hung in the warm tides of his breath. It settles now, softly as a shadow along the locked length of his lung. Snow, falling, weightless, muffles air and masks a quiet sun. His old house creaks and suffocates oppressed by every summer’s snow, now fallen. The winter ticks beside a coughing fire. The sky is falling slowly, flake by flake. No one can dig him out. Before spring’s avalanche of breath, the rot and timber in his chest will break beneath the cliff crouched on the roof, and loose that terrible abundance, death.