I can feel the winter in my once-broke clavicle while
roof tops pray for snow and grass follows it's lead.
It feels different now.
There's soup to be made, books to arrange and rearrange,
cracked melodies to grasp for before they become
part of the upper atmosphere.
I rememember the morning we woke to snow
in our city cabin in the woods,
staring at the attic style ceiling.
The sound of snow on snow
was suddenly punctuated by a thunderstorm.
It was early and there was no light
except the street lights pushing
yellow lines across the white quiet street.
I wish I could paint this for you, but I can't.