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.


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

  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.



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