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.
 
 









​

About the Author: 

---