Sunlight coats the icicles
that cling to our gutters.
I sigh, knowing they won’t
disappear for another six
weeks, probably more.
The kids across the street
learn that, when making
a snowman, things are always
easier said than done, but that
hot cocoa always waits
faithfully on the countertop.
With my back to the window,
the whir of a snow blower might
be the hum of a lawnmower,
and the harsh, cold light
pouring through onto the
kitchen table might be the
dripping wet whisper of summer.
