by Michele Glazer

    The weather forecast that snow would fall from the sky.

    （The architecture of snow was like the architecture

    of the storm itself， and of the landscape.）

    The weather forecast was that snow would fall.

    We are like snow he said.

    She understood her heart was cold.

    And that if the walls could not be breached by rhetoric

    or conjecture， still they leaned， comfortably

    perhaps， one against the other，

    an aggregate of disturbances， rust

    that in the meantime corrodes， makes beautiful.

    You are like snow. She thought，

    but I told you that before.

    The architecture of loss， the hand of a loved one.

    You are not like other weather he said.