January AM

January AM


For every leaf that turns
three hues in breezes
that spins the vanes
three directions while the
lake and stream freezes,

there is an empty cup
of coffee,
a pot still warm
on the range,
there are dark rings
on the counter tops

and dark snow on the walk
two hours before
the sun emerges
to no comforting avail,
my arms are too short
to do anything

but flail against
the gloves attached to my sleeves
by elastic straps and alligator clips,
my seat is too short
to only the top of my
sisters head, here eyes wide
and blue as lost marbles
as she eats her cereal
and ignores her toast,

Dad starts to sing
about Paris
again,
'though he's never been,
mom rattles her keys,
talking into the phone,
slapping my wrist when
I reach for the sugar,

Each small flake
that falls is
an angles' house,
so perfectly crystalline,
and pure as snow
is rumored to be,

That's what mom said
during Catechism study
and what I saw was slush
where the driveway used to be,
dark, the color of rusts,
icy mounds of snow and
every tone of earth,

who lives there?
I asked mom
in the hallway
while dad warmed up the car,

I have no idea what you're asking me, sweetie,
let's get in the car
and get this day started and over with.