January 2007

White Light of a January Morning

Snow today and I am not eager
to drive to work down Sandy Boulevard
because cars park in the middle of the road here,
even with a mere two inches of powder,

so I delay and watch from my upstairs window
while fat flakes rain down on the bright light
of 52 year old Donna and five year old Jackson
sledding on the white sidewalk

this pallid day, another northwest winter,
sky, as always, a pewter gray, but today
children unfurl through red front doors,
full of oatmeal and enthusiasm

with more than a hint of ecstasy
stuffing their Michelin-man snowsuits
while parents gather on the corner,
a veiled vigil to snowball levity.

Nobody is going anywhere today,
except to ski in the cemetery,
wave hello to the dead,
and etch angels in grass-speckled snow.

Outside my window, between SUVs
and a few enduring maple trees,
three days past Epiphany,
tiny white Christmas lights still blink hope;

overflowing, feet-stomping, snow-shaking, door-slamming
hope; Donna shouting ‘woohoo’ with neighbor boys -
a tribe of the uncensored; hope
leaves white footprints in their abandoned wake.