My friend Barb says she's
watching the white stuff.
Farther north and west, her message
rushes me to the forecast, though
arthritic bones have already told the story.
Cold is coming. Everyone here knows
this white blanket, earth's comforter
quilted until spring. The surprising
warm round hardy branches of a rose,
burlap and ashes the mulch of tales
told near all the multiple fires of time.
Currier & Ives survive in this romance,
the prance of horses beside these nearby
highways. Yes, a blizzard. Someone's
made tracks. In the falling light,
animal sign is swept away by this wild
wind. Home, there's a fireglow,
the scent of smoke, an aroma of tea.
The windows are painted like a Hollywood
movie. Tinsel in this country is not artificial,
nothing fake, the hard rough cold
of freezing, the barn and shudder. Rope.
At this end of hope,
the soft wood door is burnished, open.