By Cleopatra Mathis
The color of emptiness and denial,
hardens again the melting field.
The balmy breath of last week's thaw
left rotting snow, a loose clutter of frostwork
my footsteps fall through.
Underneath, the layers are collapsing,
dismantling the readable strata,
the frozen stasis coming undone.
A warming of the surface and it goes smooth,
likens its sheen to feldspar,
glassy hard. But this morning,
a new inch of powder gives up tracks, and as I follow,
I imagine the shudder of something just ahead,
wretched as hindsight.
The rabbit's footprints
trace the perimeter of the field, then disappear.
No sign of struggle,
just a last print in the circling white sea of snow.
Wednesday was all about catch-up, which of course I am not. The laundry is all washed but not put away, the accessories are piled on the dresser, the photos are uploaded, some of the email has been answered, and I watched this week's retro review Voyager episode, but there are about 80 things not yet done. Because we're under a flood watch all day on Thursday, we went to CVS and Giant today, and we had dinner with my parents.
While sorting and folding laundry, I caught up on the episodes of Agents of SHIELD (pretty good until the end) and Once Upon a Time (everything I hate about Beauty and the Beast in one episode) that we missed while away. Plus we watched this week's Blindspot (liking this season) and Last Week Tonight (huzzah for John Oliver who may be the only reason I survive this election season). From Constellation Park in Seattle: