Saplings stuck in the bank will show the plow truck, in a month,
the road’s edge.
The torrential rains, wind. Later, after dawn, clotted flakes
cataract the skylight.
Her finger traces the valley of his back.
The windows are opaque with ice, fissure lines squiggle
like the seam where the plates of the human skull fuse.
Snow driven in the slice of space between the barn boards.
Snowflakes stick singly and doubly to a cow’s roan coat,
skewered to a hair.
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TAGS: creative writing