thinking of you

now that it’s too late to call —

memory’s limits

winter morning —

every step complicated

by invisible ice

a small sick boy

sweating under the covers

longing for snow

epiphany —

we leave the tree up

itself a gift

paying our bills

writing the new year

until it feels real

a little more sun —

birds in the bare branches

singing away

slowly filling up

a tossed-aside trash can lid —

rain that should be snow

all purpose and shine

looking well-pleased with herself —

winter evening fox

steaming black eyed peas —

remembering how distant

this year once felt