Sunday, December 21, 2008

Luci Shaw, "December"


A forty-eight hour fall with more to come.
Our life suspended. The flakes, heavy and

discrete, grow on roof and rail to loaves of snow.
The generous sky meeting with ground’s gratitude

breeds a pearly light with no shadow. We up the heat
against the forecast’s drop. Voices on the phone agree,

it’s beautifully dangerous. Stay close to home.
Somewhere the repeated, muted sound—a shovel

shifting its soft, square load from a sidewalk—
each scrape a single word in a white poem.

Luci Shaw