The Snow Piles Up

The snow piles up
At the door and under the windows.
The wind drifts it like a track loader pushes earth.

I halfheartedly try my door.
The knob moves but the door is immobile—
It cannot be pushed outward.

The snow piles up
And I remain inside.
Not quite warm but warm enough.

The sky is a pall of white.
It's quite lovely to watch,
Not being a part of it, merely a spectator.

The snow piles up.
I'm trapped inside, standing still by the window.
Only the doorknob moves.

It's pretty out there.
Shadows have become invisible
And they cavort anonymously in the storm.

All sound is stifled;
The windows are frozen shut
But that’s alright:

The snow is saying all the nothing I could possibly say.