Save the image, the scene, I said
to myself, standing at the window
watching the snow settle like confectioner’s sugar
on the dark, gnarled bark of the old tree
in Richard’s yard, its wild branches twisted
like so many vegetal serpents quavering
to the wind’s soft music, cobras in the dawn
anointed with powder, and ready to strike.
The sky was a muslin sheet without wrinkle
stretched over this world turning just as white.
But then the tiny flakes changed into blank
crystal colossi, wide as blanched cream puffs,
so I knew from my memory of too many storms
that this was the sign of this storm’s ending.
Just then another image flashed quickly
through my snow-blind mind: the little face
of Abigail, granddaughter, peeking
over her mother’s shoulder as I came into the house
having returned from my errand. She smiled,
as if to say, Welcome home, old man!
* * *
(c) Gregory V Driscoll 2011
O'Driscoll's Take on the World 