No Two Exactly Alike

Why have you closed yourself upstairs for hours
tending to a poem on this icy-moist, keen
April day? You and I could be outdoors
walking the woods, our boots leaving wet green
stains between the snowdrops and the paper-whites
still buried to their chins in snow, but no,
you’ve drifted up the stairs again to write
down still another simile for snow.