Grading Snow

by

Thomas Michael McDade

Memory may lie
about snow depth
but not the perfect
texture of a ball
of snow in my hands,
mitten flecks
sticking like shreds
of Popsicle wrapper.
The drumming
as they landed
on trucks and buses
was relentless but just
until the roads were good
enough for hooking bumpers.
In a ski crouch,
I breathed exhaust
as if training for suicide.
No one slipped under
wheels, or dropped dead
after a snowball hit
an eye or temple,
or got frostbite.
Voices shrill with warning
but never names tailed off
like the bouquet
of wet wool on radiators
after a cold snap
turned snow crunchy.

NEXT?
Why don't you look at To Love is to Die
by: Janacian Anitra
from: Topinabee, MI, US

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