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.