Outside, soft snow
thickens on tree limbs, covers
paths, smothers imprints of angels
made fresh that morning in the rectangle
of the yard below, snow
that blurs lines of buildings,
blots out lampposts and streets.
Inside, a stifling Sunday morning
always the same, always
the breakfast served too late,
funnies spread out on the rug
finished too soon, the Philco radio
playing organ music in place of church,
nothing to do for the rest of a long day’s sighs.
At the window, nose pressed
to cool glass, a child hears the rustle
of newspapers, clink of glasses, clack
of crockery. On a tree branch piled
high with snow a tiny bird,
beak open, warbles and trills.
The windowpane stops its song.

© by Mary Lou Taylor.
Used with the author’s permission.