a little boy sits on
the top of a staircase
his laden, waterlogged
eyelashes droop
his vision fogs
with salt
his heart pulses hot/cool
snowmelt
throughout the body
there are missing
people
no mother
no father
no brother
only boy
locked in house
too scared to sleep
while snowflakes
fall in unfettered
air
there is joy in storm
if one can see it
through the tears
there is comfort
to be had once
the emotion cools
and tree branches are
unburdened from the
weight of ice
movement happens
up the stairs
dear sister
who the boy forgot
was there
places her hand
upon the boy’s
quivering back
"We call it snow
when the parts of God,
too small to bear, contest our bodies"
and angels tell us
to taste the tears
before they freeze
on our red-rubbed
noses
here, taste your tears
says sister.
*they’re salty, aren’t they?
not all these words are mine.
the stanzas in quoted italics are taken from Max Ritvo's poem, Snow Angels.
All of you should read his only collection of poetry titled, Four Reincarnations. It is amazing.