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
12-21-08
