“a ghost, who holds the creek’s place”
Expected snow tonight, but when I look out at 3 am,
the swale slumps under the full-flooding lamplight,
patient as a bed with its sheets turned down.
A cat crosses the street, never knowing threat.
Little coughs here and there in our rooms –
a nightlight in each corner, each dream adjusted.
A river of clouds scour the sky.
The children heard the news today that in heaven
ice cream and cake are breakfast, and hair grows back:
there is no sickness. Hail combed the air and we ran
to the windows: pearls choked the gutters
as if the world bloomed all at once, that drift
we called wonder accumulating, then disappearing
with a rattle off the roof –
and all the ditches shone under the weight,
never tiring of the joyous slip.