Come, you whisper. I run
down the triple switchback,
don’t stop to lift my fallen
fleece glove. I find you
in seizure, shivering, slumped
silent on a rock or massive tree roots.
(Years later, I will seek the spot.)
Snow covers you
in your too-thin jacket.
(How did I let you wear only that?)
911 sends a fire truck
instead of an ambulance.
Let’s go home. Let’s go home, you whisper.
I hate not knowing what’s best.
A hiker retrieves the fallen
glove and our car, forges
up Forbidden Drive,
her two goldens panting,
smiling, circling, leaving
paw prints all over
cognac-colored seats—lives—
changing hourly—
in heavy snow.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 22, Issue 4.
See all items about Doris Ferleger