On a day so bright the snow is blue,
a glow comes from everywhere, we march further from the solstice, light
expanding to the deeper corners
of ourselves, reminding us that soon:
spring cleaning, soon: last year’s detritus
emerging from the mounds and banks.
For now, this sheen of ice spreads
atop the driveway with a white glare
and there’s more to come, more in the forecast.
Pink will bleed into tomorrow morning’s horizon, snow will fall heavily— you’ll miss
your brother’s birthday, your mother’s too,
housebound, icebound. Just the two of you
and the new baby, cozy by the fire, each a little
in awe of the other. Fresh tracks—fox,
mouse, rabbit, will patter down the lawn.
You don’t let the cats out now
because of the foxes, but otherwise
they’ve been a bit forgotten, since you had a child.
Your good friends are scattered, across the globe. Some days you reach out, most
days you don’t. Every morning you say,
hey Google, play me the news, but usually
it’s a repeat of the day before. You say,
hey Google, play "Mood Ring" by Dehd. It plays
"Mood Ring" by Lorde but you listen anyway,
while you prepare supper: We can get high,
but only if the wind blows (blows just right).
The sky is pale, moon lingering in the daytime, gusts crashing into waves,
the ocean bled-blue. You’ve had a daughter
for four short months but the way the world feels
has shifted. The way you miss the dusting of snow
on the trees each time it’s blown off, notice
the sharp slip beneath your feet
when you don’t wear the right boots, feel the gasp
always ready at the back of your throat.
Where you live now, BigMoon Power is trying to harness the tides each day
you walk across the bridge and see
the shipping containers filled with cement:
gravity bases. Soon: a kinetic wheel
to spin with the current. Soon: redemption
for the previous failures, they say.
All the fish kills.
You took an imprint of her hand this week, pressing tiny fingers into pink clay to remember
these sweet and fleeting gestures, softening
like the pastel of winter sunsets, the modest
way the sky fades to skyline. The big picture
window you watch from reminds you
of your every intention to update this house,
but it’s still much the same as when you moved
in—someone else’s curtains and paint
colors, ghosts in the walls, in a way.
Soon: the baby will sleep through the night. Soon: you’ll tear up some carpets. Soon:
the storm will have passed, clouds lifting,
amber streaming back into the living room.
Then another will come, maybe sleet, maybe
that wistful weather between rain and snow.
But for now, the clay bakes in the oven, smells
slightly of an earth you haven’t seen in months. You breathe
deeply in the kitchen, stop at the sink, gather yourself.
Imagine a ground that squishes beneath your feet,
imagine not wearing shoes.
You think of the freezing rain like sewing needles, hemming in this landscape before
throwing themselves away, strewn around the yard.
Everything you want to protect her from.
Five more weeks of winter, five more weeks
till spring, but you know that well
into the warmer seasons there will still be something
falling, falling in your periphery.