from Ancient Memories
After the leaves have dropped,
and the wind shifts in from the North,
after the pumpkins have all
withered on limestone stoops
and I’ve managed to put away
the garden fountain,
tucking the ancient green
Chinese pot
away in any old corner,
the snow comes
on inconvenient days,
Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays,
days of work and driving and being
out in it.
This year, the first snow of December
came earlier and heavier
than many of us can remember.
Rounded piles of snow built up on
picnic tables
trash cans,
forgotten garden gnomes,
little, decorative shrubs
planted and pampered
through long, humid
summer days
buried now
beneath
white mushrooms.
When I let my dog
out in it,
billions of fresh, fallen crystals,
on that dark Thursday morning,
she got right to work,
sniffing each flake,
rooting out
buried treasure,
while I stood in the doorway,
in my red flannel robe,
clutching a cup of black coffee,
peering at yesterday
covered over.