Snow Becoming Light by Morning

In case you sit across from the meteorologist tonight, and in case the dim light over the booth in the bar still shines almost planetary on your large, smooth, winter-softened forehead, in case all of the day—its woods and play, its fire— has stayed on your beard, and will stay through the slight drift of mouth, the slackening of even your heart's muscle— . . . well. I am filled with snow. There's nothing to do now but wait.