Syrian snow
lands on homes,
roofless bones of brick.
It lands on barbed wire fences,
photographed in yesterday’s news.
Syrian snow
falls on the boats
of those whose only chance is to go.
It lands in Greece,
in Munich,
in Paris,
is carried across the Channel
to you
and me
and we turn over the TV,
close the door,
let it melt.
Syrian snow
tastes like ghosts,
like ash, like
Holocausts.
IOB 5.3.15
