top of page
Winter Letter, Unfinished

Under a veil of slumbering trees, winter’s day cracks 

from beneath the sweet shell of darkness hardly 

noticed, my head bent by the fire 

over paper and pen, I am writing


to you while most of this house still sleeps

and our good neighbours wake in a home no longer theirs;

think about what to take, what to leave, wonder 

where they will live next month in this town where 

renters have nowhere to go.


Set letter aside, pull on warm clothes, call the dog. 

Slide boots over socks, find dry mitts. Wind sculpture drift—

rise of a hip, deep folds of a belly, one long white leg

graceful lines, a goddess asleep

in my driveway.


My shovel hits snow, we must dig out.

in Pinhole Poetry 2:1, Spring 2023
bottom of page