This is the middle of March.
Nor’easter snowfall
packs us indoors,
city plows useless
as the Erie Canal.
On Child’s Street,
snow rusts the marine
legs’ reach over the
river—at sunset,
like the desperate arms
of black willows.
I have heard the Lost
Villages were beautiful.
The St. Lawrence used us.
Lake effect trapped us.
I was born in Buffalo.