On Snow

by Amy

Under snow there is grass,
I’ve learned and relearned that each season, but
even now I can’t promise not to forget that.
In the morning, my friend comes to the door with
a shovel,
but I have no prize for him or his help,
I only offer warmth radiating from baskets of clothes made their way to my back,
false heat in contact with my diplomatic skin
that insists any slight thickening
of blood, or
sharpening of bone
have come from within,
such shame in mentioning someone coaxing light from my skin.

I should have helped clear a path,
but I’m best at the role of rapt wayfarer, shuffle strictly
just heel to toe,
while more snow joins the gleaming colony,
its metal conqueror with one steady wooden arm decides who can stay,
and how much goes.
More weight falls to the grass, my regret is mostly of spring,
I watered only when the grass started snapping under my bare feet,
only if it pinched
blonde hairs on my thigh when I’d surrender in summer
to space not quite mine.
Hadn’t gardened in years,
but complained of brittle grasses.
I let too many things both heavy and wet
fall to grounds that will joylessly, merely
accommodate it.