ceaseless winter in poetry

it’s that certain kind of snow
powdery and light but ceaseless
it’s slow but seeming infinite
as if it will just never stop
as though God realized the mistake
of this planet, this time and place
the mistake of the human race and has
decided to just cover up the evidence
that’s the kind of snow falling tonight
I feel as though this damn snow could
bury me if I let it do so and
I would be tempted to let it