The sky sheds snow like silver scales
sloughed from the snake moon.
Snow swims under street lamps then scatters
in the sudden squall like shoals of shimmering sardines.
It settles and smooths the scars of yesterday’s prairie
sealing the sun in its prism.
Straining against the weight of winter, the sun
slinks up the sky and stands still for a second
before tipping the scale in favor of day.
In the woods by my house,
someone has chosen
a tree–small, slanted, somewhat
scraggly, from a stand
of strong and stately pines.
They have begilded
this tree with silver
and gold balls, coronated
it with a gold star.
And the snow has tinseled
its branches.
When I round the path,
carrying my own burdens,
I see it there, arms heavy
from the weight
of ornaments and snow.
My breath catches
against the cold air, as if
on a nail. I stop and wonder–
at this tree, at this snow,
at this neighbor
who did the choosing, at my
one small and gilded life.
On this February night, I tuck the blanket round
my son’s cold feet, bend to kiss his forehead
and flip off the lights. I linger in the darkening
threshold, long enough to hear his breathing
turn rhythmic; long enough to notice
how the blue moonlight angling in from the window
hollows his eye sockets and temples.
Outside, new snow is falling on old.
On this February night, in a hospital bed
a thousand miles away, my son’s namesake lies
dying under the watch of the selfsame moon. It may be snowing
where he is, but no one minds. Instead, they consider
whether to increase his morphine drip; whether
he will draw another jagged breath;
whether he will surface long enough to receive
his viaticum; whether anything remains to be said.
From the cabin
in the waiting woods,
smoke weaves
like white weft
through the dark warp
of winter trees, winding
to the weighted sky.
White on white.
Fall bleeds into winter:
the repentant trees hold
nothing but empty nests,
their grievous arms outstretched
in supplication, awaiting
the anointment of snow.
evelynwestbrook 