The morning snow was all wrong,
the way it spun—gray, almost dry,
rattled against the eaves,
old wraith fingers rapping,
tapping to wake us up
to a day tilting
and lurching from our screens—
whirl of abandoned words,
gunfire and armored cars,
cries like snow-thunder
on a distant planet.
How was it then
that we sat down and ate
our bacon and eggs?
Fed the wracked scraps
to our stiff-legged hound?
Lumbered through the woods?
Puzzled under pines on ice-
heaved paths? Almost forgot
how to return? Fell asleep
swathed in familiar skin?
Woke late to the next day’s
brute, unfettered sun?
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 24, Issue 5.
Mary Beth Hines writes poetry, short fiction, and non-fiction from her home in Massachusetts. Her debut poetry collection, Winter at a Summer House, was recently published by Kelsay Books. Her work appears in Crab Orchard Review, Hole In The Head Review, The MacGuffin, Tar River Poetry, Valparaiso and elsewhere. Her short fiction was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Connect with her at www.marybethhines.com.
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