Snow

My friend Barb says she's
watching the white stuff.

Farther north and west, her message
rushes me to the forecast, though

arthritic bones have already told the story.
Cold is coming. Everyone here knows

this white blanket, earth's comforter
quilted until spring. The surprising

warm round hardy branches of a rose,
burlap and ashes the mulch of tales

told near all the multiple fires of time.
Currier & Ives survive in this romance,

the prance of horses beside these nearby
highways. Yes, a blizzard. Someone's

made tracks. In the falling light,
animal sign is swept away by this wild

wind. Home, there's a fireglow,
the scent of smoke, an aroma of tea.

The windows are painted like a Hollywood
movie. Tinsel in this country is not artificial,

nothing fake, the hard rough cold
of freezing, the barn and shudder. Rope.

At this end of hope,
the soft wood door is burnished, open.