Snow Angels (after Sandy Hook)

by Sarah McKinstry-Brown


The weatherman can't predict

accumulation. He can only tell you

it will be cold. Expect ice, wind, snow, expect


delays. Your daughters play outside,

dancing around the Evergreen, its branches

bearing the weight of snow, its branches


mirroring your shoulders as you try to move through the day's news.


Between bursts of laughter, the girls spread their arms

and free-fall backwards, flapping their limbs.

They stand up and take a quick look back at what they've made


before running toward the hill. They don't know

how the world has emptied; they don't know


how the echo of their small bodies breaks you.