In my poetry file I have a doc named "Winter Morning." In it, I found Sunday. I also have a manuscript doc, which is a compilation of everything I turned in at the end of the class. In the manuscript, but nowhere else, I found Winter Morning. Slightly confused, I decided you get two for one this week. Happy New Year's Eve.
Sunday
The wind snaps at the flag
Rattles the window
Prints left on white lawn
Lead carefully to the mailbox.
He picks up the thrown paper
Peels off cold orange plastic.
Clumsy, numb fingers
News unfurled
Stories scattered like seed
To the morning drifts.
Plastic seeps through angry knuckles
Winter Morning
She snaps at the flag
Rattles the window where he watches her blow
Together they throw open the door.
Careful steps to the mailbox
Leave prints on the white lawn.
She kisses his nose
Giggles when his cheeks blush at her touch.
He picks up the poorly thrown paper
Peeling off cold orange plastic.
He hurries back in to the fire—
She’d rather play fetch.
He chases the tumbling pages
And trips in a fresh drift of powdery snow.
He rolls to his back and lifts his head
Greeting her with a smile.
He forms an angel in the snow
No comments:
Post a Comment