When snow is wet, it clings to the sides of trees,
like white moss. It climbs fences, turns windows
into gauzy glass, eyes with cataracts. Cars outside
try to tackle the steep hill of our street
and fail, fishtailing into the mailboxes.
Drafts slinking in under the cracks of doorways,
around the frames of white light in the walls,
feel colder, like breath of lost love on the neck.
The sky is a heavy sigh of muted fumblings,
a gray cloud muttering its ceaseless musings about sun.
Tomorrow we’ll venture outside. Children
will use this road like a luge. Our steps will follow us,
as uncertain and wavering as they are
on the compacted layers of ice. I’ll pass a sleeping man
curled under a wool blanket on the walk,
face hidden in a mask, I can’t tell if he’s breathing
and I’m too cold to stop and ask,
ready to warm my hands under the vents in my car,
to get back home, where breath becomes silence
and a fireplace hissing with natural gas.
Jay Sizemore hates when you call writing a hobby. His work has appeared here or there, mostly there. He’s had a lot of time to change his mind about everything. Currently, he lives in Nashville, TN, or does he even exist?