Spring Snow

by Mark Belair

Spring snow
slackens from the sidewalk
on this day of rain, though
not from the old, gated, padlocked
cemetery, its crisp white cover still
spread as if change
on the far side of the wrought-iron fence
moves more slowly, time
stalled by the stillness
of the graves, yesterday itself held
captive to the cold
pull of yesterdays already
abiding there.