Nothing for a poem. Only recoiled memories
and snow piling on the snow-plowed hill –
that salty, gray scheme.
And when it melts,
a red-haired girl huddles over the iron drain
and stretches her arm with stick and net
through its grates fishing for snow.
From my window, I watch worms
rise in orange grass by her knees
and hear swiftly descending birds.
I peel skin from an old, yellow pencil.
Photo By: Jim Staley
