January 13, 2017

I first tasted snow when I was five.
Frozen doilies, one after one, melted
on my tongue, tingling as ice cream.

When I was a teen on the track’s wrong side,
snow sanitized the rubbish
tossed out neighbors’ doors.
Rusted cars, embarrassed without wheels,
wore hoods of sparkling white
and every sore house looked like
a Currier and Ives.

You introduced me to ski slopes,
snow shoes, the deep peace of woods
in winter, hot chocolate kisses next
to a roaring fire inside
a cozy cabin. Sodden flakes
wrapped us in a snug cocoon.

Sometimes snow is like muffled silence
when we need to talk,
biting frost seizing my mouth
when I should say I’m sorry,
cold seeping through
cracks we need to chink.

I offer my pride as mortar.
I live on the hope snow signals:
to white out even scarlet wounds.