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.
All rights reserved.
A poem that began with the image of my daughters making snow angels a few days after the shootings at Sandy Hook.