Whiteout

The power line snapped an hour ago,

taking the hum of the fridge and the clock.

Now the porch is a shelf for the cold,

and the world is losing its edges.

It isn't quiet like an empty room.

It is the sound of a thousand soft landings,

a weight that builds without a strike.

I watch the fence post go anonymous,

a wooden stick turning into a dome,

until there are no more sharp corners,

no more property lines,

just the slow burial of the neighborhood.