Snow must be falling in darkness,
frost filling every crevice and vein.
Rain must be washing the curve of the coast,
sleet making cutouts of houses in town.
Someone will drink from a cup too hot to hold
before settling into night’s thick pelt.
Someone will press a forehead against a window
to see what aspect of weather has mantled a field.
Whose roof last glinted in sunlight? Whose boat
last pushed off from the pier in a glittering wake?
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- Triolet: Epistemology of the Bees
- Fine Print
- Give thanks for the weight
- What’s Written is Not Always What’s Heard
- The days, sharp-finned, they plane
- Selling the Family Home
- Elegy, with lines from e.e. cummings
- Letter to Audrey Hepburn
- Stage Directions
- Dear spurred and caruncled one in the grass,
- Dear one, anxious again about arrival—
- Epistle of the bird
- Prayer for Wings
- Small birds fly past,
- Why it’s OK to live a little
- Instruct, recall
- Winter Song