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