Early
Snow
The road
I knew is gone. In the dark, down a double row of street lamps
illuminating seeming puffs of whirling seed, I steer my slow, slippery
guess.
From the
softened lot I enter and sign the book, tight clots of murmuring
women, mute husbands fumbling with their hands.
Your boys
are men now, cleaned up scruff, silk square knots
plump as buds. "Just dropped," they say, "Sunday, like
a cable snapped."
A line
at the priedieu. Finally I kneel. Your face is flatter, lips slimmer,
some dirt ridging a nail. Vince, you harbinger you! bringing in our
season:
don't
we learn early what we already know? Soon, it's February everywhere,
and it's roses, roses, spoiling the cold scent of snow.
--Rick
Cannon
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