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.