Counting snowflakes will not help me sleep

Counting snowflakes will not help me sleep
-for the fallen, and those yet to fall in the Israel-Hamas conflict

Bring me slow horses 
and hot cocoa. Give me
the God of twenty-seven degrees.
God of snow. God of rock
salt shining on the road home.

Take this detonating dream –
a beautiful woman watches
David bathing on a roof.

She will have him.
She’ll take his house,
his dark figs harvested by hand.

She says, your babies
are bad at war. 
She never blinks.

He sings in his mother’s
tongue. He tries to tell me
something as he drowns. 

When I wake, the old
language is lost. I wait
at the window – the fallen
belong to us all. I couldn’t
count them if I tried.

Look – the snow
is really coming down.