The snow stuns the sky into quiet



only the lake understands,



restive beyond the gray stone breakwater.



Across the street, my neighbor knows



a green hope weaves a wooden trellis



over a fresh-powdered walk, his jacket,



a plaid patch on the shed doorknob.



His brown daughter sprouts bud breasts



under her sweatshirt; twirls tendrils



of dark braids, then steadies the plank



with both hands as her eyes follow



his hammer's arc.



                        *



                       In her, I am twelve



again, New Year's Eve: my mother and I



sleep early—she, in their pink room,



I where my brother and I share bunks,



walls not repainted pre-war blue



when we move in, little floor space



for second-hand chairs, desks,



chests-of-drawers. Weak springs



give as sheets twine her ankles.



Pillowing in premature wishes,



we fear silver bullets



in my neighbor's pistol, his bayou way



of killing earthbound ghosts



when the old year dies,



                         *



                     and so it goes.



The last slats nailed in place,



the girl trails her father into a house



aflame with saffron light of melting snow,



holy surprise getting past the silence.



A nighthawk perches sideways in the ash



like a bundle of wet leaves, unfurls



her wings, then lifts into air



I thought too cold for flight.