Sonnet 3

2/27/11

The smell of cinnamon bombards my nose:

So sweet and sticky soft it bakes and browns

Below me in the oven. And it snows

Outside, a blanket on this quiet town.

The silence looms before me like a curse.

What ought to make me feel so much at home—

The quaint, perfected, cheerful winter hearse—

Is slowly dragging me into a tomb;

Buried underneath the little cares,

Which multiplying turn into a drift

Of heavy, unrelenting snow I share

With all my race, but cannot bear to lift.

And out the window snow is falling still,

And I am buried, as my window sill.