We had missed the plane to Tulsa
and as we drove home from the airport
the snow melted back into rain
and flooded the canals
running perpendicular to the highway.

Next morning, I awoke to the sound
of you whirring berries red like God’s blood
and grinding coffee. I roasted
the duck while you shoveled what was left
of the snow back onto the walk.

We spent the rest of the day on the phone
rehearsing memories with distant families,
or in bed, or walking in the raw sunlight
and the wind like a frisky puppy

threading its leash around our legs
and down our necks, or shaking
hands and exchanging boxes
of chocolates with new neighbors.

Near the end of the day, not even halfway
through the last present and still marveling
at the miracles of whipping cream
and electricity, we played dominoes
at the familiar table, tucking in
ghosts like old friends.

December 25, 2008

Categories: Poems
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