where the writers are
In the Melting Snow of my Childhood




Naked branches scratch

against a window.

Wet boots line up

by the door.


Beneath draped shawls,

mourners chant--

like old hypnotists

reading each other's minds.


Winter harmonies and

snowdrifts obscure

the moon.


Bluebirds fly

among the secrets of the dead,

like confetti

in the yellow grass of spring.