Wet air grows branches on window panes.
The earth’s core shrinks from its crust
Leaving airy gaps
Twixt stone and dirt.
Brooks stand still in broken layers.
Hilary walks on their water
As easily as Christ
And burrows exuberantly
In God’s Styrofoam blanket.
Inside she thaws,
Dripping away her cloak
Of a thousand white tassles.
I watch her happily lick winter from her paws,
And sorrow at her return to Atlanta’s dull monsoons.
written while visiting my parents in MetroWest Boston,1977
Winter’s end was a magical time for both of us.