Before It Snows

 

I bury their tiny heads in peat and
think of the day when the sun warms the soil
and my children’s bodies sprout leaves and send
flowers into the sunshine, raise their loyal
fists high and rejoice in the world. I don’t
pray often. Snow falls outside my window

barely heard or felt through bright dreams so grand
longing thoughts of the tiny bodies coiled
out there, the small unpeople obscured and
confined by the icy dunes. They’re alone
out there, sleeping, I think and dream of the slow
whisper of roots climbing through their soft bones,

branches like fingers growing until
they touch the sky.

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