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,
some become angels’ wings.
One winter a stranger lived in the
didn’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,a
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.
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.
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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