Silence
— First Snow
Jeanine Stevens
Winter
again, sweeping the summit,
wetter than later, echoing in a hush.
The
large crow hawking yesterday
is nowhere in sight. It is six a.m.
I
plug in the small tree, lights
backlit against frozen windows.
It
seems a burning bush in
all this whiteness. I like this hour
when the ground is still—void
of scent, no bland granite or spicy moss.
I
am alone—no smoke from chimneys,
no one walking to the lake.
It
is a protected contemplation,
a celestial silence that will soon be
interrupted when the sun re-asserts
itself and grabs all the glory.
Then,
trees release white discs: springing
catapults, a hundred jittery fingers.
The
earth warms, heat trickles
down eaves, soaking wood fences.
Limbs
rise in a yawn,
and black asphalt steams gray
and hissy through melting snow,
destroying all my white silence.
Jeanine Stevens was raised in