Why I am thinking of my father
on the topic of white snows
perhaps because he seemed almost Hispanic
in his youth, tanned, dark hair and eyes
but whiteness shone the day
he came home early
worry caught my breath in chest
and only in the morning
did the firemen come, taking him away.
Such heart spasms, clench us all,
yet snow falls so softly, unexpected
and ice rains even less noticed
they drip, drip, coating the roads
and only when we step too fast
skews our vehicle, ends us in ditch
new babies without parents,
stitches in our heads.
The drips spire down the icicles,
coat the roses as buds, never to open,
and yet, sometimes, I wish to be inside
tasting the ice cold water like fire
turning blue to the ends of my limbs
in sleepiness, and setting ablaze
my very soul, like a light, shine out as call
here, with me, all the memories
a blanket of witness to eternity
dripping into us experience’s minerals.
Who could do magic with a wand
headed with all of life’s power to hold?
Who could accept magic in waves
like the falling of snow, or wonder
that we escaped from death,
that we saw roses, saw the spirals
climb down from the sky as raindrops
and drip, drip, into our thoughts
all that began as white and ended.
Copyright © Sheri Fresonke Harper