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.