It's a poem called, Spring Snow.
Here comes the powdered milk I drank as a child and the money
it saved.
Here come the papers I delivered.
The spotted dog and Heath that followed me home,
and the dogs that followed her.
Here comes a load of white laundry
from basketball practice, and sheets with their water marks
of semen.
And here comes snow--
a language in which no word is ever repeated.
Love is impossible-- and remorse.
Yet childhood doesn't end but accumulates--
each memory knit to the next.
And the fields become one field.
If to die is to lose all detail, then death
is not so distinguished, but a profusion of detail--
a last gossip, character passed wholly into fate.
And fate and flecks like dust, like flower, like snow.