What the Snow Teaches
Barbara Daniels Snow lies grooved on the ground where a plastic recycling can stood. A mouse pushed close to our door. A bit of warmth must have spilled to where it was dying. I didn’t see what took the body, maybe the elegant orange cat that dances past, doing its rounds. I’ve wished all day that I could return to the vivid, persuasive colors and jump cuts of dreams. Small sounds are a comfort, even a sales call, though I don’t lift the phone to talk. Have you noticed how scars hurt years after surgery? Maybe there’s no true healing. Birds sit on the bird bath, backs to it, tails dipped in cold water. Fine snow slips down the curved sides of the summer chairs and rests on their generous outstretched arms. Snow shifts till it twirls in the pearled light and seems to turn into nothing. |
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