William Doreski 2 | williamray

Sketching itself in the trees,
the snowfall looks so winsome
that I’m eager to embrace it.

So much intelligence pouring
from such a featureless sky.
The knobby stones in the brook

accept their snow-caps with shrugs.
The ruts of adventurous cars
gouge a route for me to follow

to town where brick and painted trim
complement the blowing snow.
Bearded men in pickups rattle

their plows as they speed to relieve
desperate and clotted driveways.
I should make something of winter,

something monumental. Daylight
fades. A gloss of thawed puddles glows.
After dark, when everything matters,

the moon, a crescent hung on a hook,
will enlighten all of New Hampshire
with the pleasure of freezing the melt.