Poem of the Month

 A Crust of Snow

 You like to imagine, as the drifts melt—

beached whales, pelican beaks,

royal penguins

stranded far from their eggs—

you the humanist

see human forms all too well.

 A hand reaching from soot-remnants,

pleats and darts

folded back and tacked

as if to embroider a time

of angel-making,

when, hooded with your sisters,

you fell back into virgin snow

arms swinging back and forth.

Wings no longer taped,

no more straightjacketed to earth.