Monday, March 4, 2013

What Should We Call It

What Should We Call It

Blanched feather-confetti
of the snow you kept hearing
was coming, for minutes
and minutes. An hour
of shattered birches
still hovering and falling.
Flicked on like a light
inside you, the new thought
that you do not want the snow
to stop, even though you see
it slowing, already. That specific
dread of the end of snow.

2 comments:

  1. A universal thought, well-put, but I mistakenly first read "birches" as "bitches" and it took on a whole new meaning!

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  2. i read you and smile from inside. (you understand, hannah, it is from a warm place in my belly, not the sweet belly, but the living stomach.) i have stepped somewhat away from poetry (and blogging, in part) lately but i will always come back. you are an authority on translating our human condition.

    xo
    erin

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