Snow is supposed to be in the cold. Ash is supposed to be in the past. Snow is supposed to be on earth; ash, scattering in the wind. Ash is supposed to be the snow of fire, enemy of winter’s flowers. And winter is supposed to take place on the earth between the fall and spring. It is not supposed to take place on the moon. But when it is winter on the moon, when you are writing a poem in it, taking care to sweep it free of ash and snow, to cut down any spruces that spring up in the way, disposing also of wind and junipers and summer sounds, you will now and then look up and see a cloudy planet floating in the sky. It’s about the size of your fist at arm’s length. Dusty continents cartwheel into view, then oceans serenely take their place. There must be people taking a subway. There must be mornings and situations, a girl walking her bicycle across the street, a graduate student in prayer on the floor of a hospital chapel, a track team running to the vanishing point and back, a basketball game the whole neighborhood turns out to cheer, poetry readings attended by more than sixty people—it sounds exciting! You picture yourself in a helmet of glass, and a silver suit with copper buckles, strapping into the seat of a cockpit aimed at the little world. With a few keystrokes, up you go, lifted by a bright white stream of snow and ash. Of course, this does not actually happen. You are, after all, still seated at your desk on the surface of the moon in winter, which shows no signs of abating. And weeks pass by like windows on a moving train.