Snow
by Lisel Mueller (my mother used to ask me if I, tucked away in San Francisco, ever missed a New England winter. Yes, sometimes, Mother, even out of season). Telephone poles relax their spines, sidewalks go under. The nightly groans of aging porches are put to sleep. Mercy sponges the lips of stairs. While we talk in the old concepts- time that was, and things that are- snow has leveled the stumps of the past and the earth has a new language. It's like the scene in which the girl moves toward the hero who has not yet said, "Come here." Come here, then. Every ditch has been exalted. We are covered with stars. Feel how light they are, our lives.