Lesley Wheeler



This book was on a snowdrift this morning
The mayor is tweeting too much again
Four snow days in a row is the
slow unfurl of a hangover
I knew it would be beautiful
to look out the front window
streetlight glow,
the day I finally saw
orange snow light as I had
imagined it, my mother would
spend the day at the beach
collecting shells and gull feathers,
and call me to say that no one
else was there, she stood still
to figure out exactly what color
the ocean is– a grey green
teal that’s always changing.
Due to full moon rains
the desert festival was
cancelled due to war.

Tuesday is cancelled for everyone,
even though snow isn’t a problem for
mind-melders, tele-bankers, virtual students.
The way to decompress time is to find
more awe. A dreamcatcher
dangles in the breeze of the heating ventnd it’s hard to exit
the trampoline gracefully.
Well, what now, other than waving
to the man across the street as he
gets into his tiny red pickup
bed full of snow?
After the famous poet inscribes
my book, I go to the bathroom to check
my face, count how many
unused paper towels are in
the waste bin. Now,
close your eyes and duck
your head under.

With these endless repetitions,
could something come to light? Planes
will, yes and clouds too. Light blue
one, lift towards the Northeast.
Anticipate what’s left of
the reason I tuck my nose
in my turtleneck fleece,
the pink over-rose of
distance, a change of scenery
on the same exit ramp.

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