Cracking limbs
and splintered boughs
in the night.
She hears the shimmering
crystals fall but
never thinks to catch them
in her palms.
They make a narrow
escape and lock up
the house as the transformer
flares, a lightning
strike.
Later she views the silvery
photographs. Beauty.
If you only look –
she never had.
Hindsight cuts a clean swath
and so bright.
Just another New England winter
and your coat
won’t do.
She shovels a narrow path
to feel her way through,
as the snow flies:
she winces, covers up,
never quite seeing it
for what it is. The time will
pass and cover over
and over,
sealed in like so much glaze. She never did
see things for what they were
when the snow began to stick.
