Snow
Downstairs,
you shiver with the flu
I passed along
a week ago.
Upstairs,
I find an empty journal,
a blank book
given as a writing present
over ten years ago.
Outside,
snow falls in a fringe
of sharp white,
one degree past the border
of ice, a tiptoe
over the line of safety.
Inside, the house burns
with sickness and dry heat.
The animals raise their heads,
only to lower them
a second later.
The wind picks up,
blowing the tight beads
into a frenzy of lost diagonals.
I look out of the window
at the blue ground,
so cold that I can taste it.
I imagine lying face down,
my tongue melting through
the crisp layers,
granules sliding their way down
my throat like clear gems.
Out there, in the cold,
no sickness, no past,
no need for writing.
Just the fall, and natural,
inevitable stop
as the ground soaks,
the air drinks,
and the world closes its doors.
Katherine Cottle holds an MFA degree in creative writing from the University of Maryland. Her work has appeared in River Oak Review, Blue Mesa Review,
Willow Springs, Puerto del Sol, The Greensboro Review, Tar River Poetry, The Cimarron Review and Poetry East. Her chapbook, My Father’s Speech, was published by Apprentice House Publishers in 2007. Katherine is a creative writing instructor through Johns Hopkins University’s Center for Talented Youth distance education program.