photo: Susan Wray
A forty-eight hour fall with more to come.
Our life suspended. The flakes, heavy and
discrete, rise on roof and rail to loaves of snow.
The generous sky breeds a pearly light
with no shadow. We up the heat against
the forecast's drop. Voices on the phone agree,
It's beautifully dangerous. Stay home.
Somewhere the repeated, muted sound—
a shovel shifting from a sidewalk
its soft, square load.
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