Snow compacts leaves in the front garden,
melts; a new freeze comes, thaws again.
Skin breaks from ribs: next summer’s soil.

After supper we unclip stiff
sheets from wires slung on basement joists,
fold and put away for next week’s use.

We write the Christmas letter, fold and seal,
unearth the list of friends we wish were near,
peel stamps, surrender to the darkened box.

Clouds sift in, a promise of snow and sleet.
The fattened squirrels twitch in their sleep.
A few sparrows flock, seeking seeds.

Categories: The Grind
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