Spring 1989 • Vol. XI No. 2 Poetry |

A February Thaw Should Be Played Slowly

Where you dive, the six-sided bits of sky, frozen and angry, drive so hard into the folded pages of your eyes, they lift you up like the white wings of memory, the frost heaving you back into character, back to me grieving by the light of a seven-day candle, where we can touch the little growth of love we had almost three years to scratch the surface of between a father and a son-in-law, and for that— on this hill where it snows almost every day, until summer suddenly drives the roots of trees into bedrock—I'm grateful.

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