Sunday, 21 December 2014

December Thaw by Steve Klepetar

Today she walks to town in a December thaw.
Snowmelt puddles everywhere, gutters dripping,
impenetrable sky, an ocean upside down, gripped
with mist. He was awake all night, heavy steps
creaking on the bedroom floor. Now it’s after ten
and he is still in bed, formidable lump, tossing 
on his dream clouds. Bedclothes heave and swell.
Her new boots splash as she goes, but her feet stay

dry. No light glistens on the wet streets. Dirty
snow recedes. What a picture to remember –
black branches scratching at the sky, and shrinking 
drifts. Beneath this unaccustomed warmth, smell 
of earth and worms, as if she could be made whole
again before the swirling wind and coming storm. 

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