SUSAN WISMER
Winter letter, unfinished Under a veil of slumbering trees, a winter’s day cracks from beneath the sweet shell of darkness hardly noticed by me. Head bent by the fire over paper and pen, I am writing to you while most of this house still sleeps and our good neighbours wake in a home no longer theirs; think about what to take, what to leave, wondering where they will live next month in this town where renters have nowhere to go. Set letter aside, pull on warm clothes, call the dog. Slide boots over socks, find dry mitts. Wind sculpture drifts— rise of a hip, deep folds of a belly, the graceful lines of one long white leg, a goddess is asleep in my driveway My shovel hits snow, we must dig out.