After the Blizzard

March 2, 2018

Direction — an ache in the bones,

the want of a hand on a loved one’s hip.

 

Night. The lingering hieroglyphics

of snuffed out candles.

 

The coal-glow of a spent wood fire.

The last gust-creaks of structure —

 

the passing storm’s sotto voce grace notes

played to stinging perfection —

 

while out there

the snow-ghosted land

 

holds its breath,

mum tongue to the roof of its mouth.

 

All around, we feel it,

the shaken will of bendable things

 

shutting down, slouching to half-shadow.

Wind, time, the generosity of spirit,

 

one’s ability to whisper or sigh —

huddling now and hushed. Nothing

 

to do

but wait,

 

and imagine the morning

and the announcement that must come —

 

a blush of light, the tip of a branch

rising against the white weight,

 

a cautious step at the edge of the field,

some soft, low, wild cry

 

that tells us

it’s all right to resume.

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