Dust collects in the desert of my
once-existence.
God sits on my shoulder and whispers into my
once-ear
about the trivial things that once meant a great deal
but no longer have any bearing on my new existence.
I know this and wander off,
through the stars, past the clouds,
to the earth that once felt and no longer does.
I find my self feeling around my pockets
for what was once a keyring. A keyring
that held the keys to my car - the red Ford,
my dad’s green truck – the one he painted himself,
and the front door that I stand in front of.
But I don’t have a key.
I look behind me
at the snow beginning to fall and I know He is watching
through his million flakes of consciousness
as I turn the knob.
Things are different but I don’t know how.
The once-exposed ground
now hides under a thin blanket of white, growing.
I walk among the house,
remembering but not reminiscing.
I find my family, as if nothing had happened
between the white walls
and under the grey ceiling.
Beyond the window, the million minion flakes have formed one sheet,
their one body reflecting off of the dampened sunlight.
It casts a white-grey glow on the room
and my once-family.
They look half-alive.
Beyond the window, the ground is now covered and frozen
once-remembered,
now forgotten.