by Jeanne Sirotkin
I smell palm trees and salt in the southern breeze
This makes no sense
It’s January in Michigan
yet bulbs push above ground
and magnolia trees try to bloom
I never thought I’d pray for snow
for a white blanket to insulate
for a cold so hard my breath would ache
for the clock to run forward
ticking its way to the correct temperature
We used to dial time and weather on the telephone
to be reassured that it was exactly
two minutes before midnight
or five minutes too late
or twenty degrees above or below the magic hollow number zero
To step out or not
To let bitter air crash in through the door
The dogs’ paws bleeding
Snow forming ruts in the streets
Sheets on the neighbor’s clothesline, iced
A cracking sound
slips across the lake
where fish swim in sluggish circles
looking for blue worms
in the blue light that the low sun can’t break
On some horizon a wisp of smoke rises
like a hand waving
Wood and damp clothes drying
We return with our children and our grandfathers
To the only kind of winter we have ever known.