Muffled up and catching falling snow,
Standing in the cold wet stench,
The train comes in.
People stuff like wasted tissue
Up against the windows.

Turned around and trudging home again,
The ticket squashed inside my mitten.
These two years
Frozen on my face.
What whim robs me of the joy and grace
To love the snowflakes
After they have fallen
On this hill,


Linda Frye Burnham, Japan, 1969, Vietnam War

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