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.

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