By Bonny Thompson Enes
Fleece white silence coats the south side of naked knotted oak trees, red house and barn. Blanketed schist stone walls run squares and rectangles throughout this town, define boundaries.
Snowflakes drift sideways, glide backwards, make decisions—some become goldfish swim around corn stalk skeletons, light upon boney ears of corn,
some buzz around as bees swarm into gardens, become marigolds, some become angels’ wings.
One winter a stranger lived in the barn loftdidn’t know he was there and gone until that summer sweeping out hay to use on the garden— found a heater cobbled together out of a metal box and pipe, deck of playing cards, empty pack of Wrigleys chewing gum. He left me notice, but didn’t bother me although he could easily tell, with my comings and goings, I lived alone.
At night, three cats, black dog and I watch as sleet rushes by horizontally, swirling chaotically on the other side of frosted panes. Lit candles in windows, flames sway to a song of howling.
Tomorrow—silence, a glazed crust will glisten, tomorrow, a work of art.
Bonnie Thompson Enes of Bloomfield is a poet whose work has appeared in several anthologies and magazines.
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