poetry and prose webzine
In the Snow
A set of footprints, like a dotted line meant to cut my yard in half
hollows the fresh snow, either starting at my window and ending at the back fence
or, more likely, the other way around. I’m not ready to think about that.
In the quiet of the kitchen, staring out into the fenced-in yard, I try to convince myself
that the footprints are actually just impressions left by rabbits
briefly huddled against the cold, but so many rabbits? Perhaps my yard
has become where the stray cats in the neighborhood congregate
but quietly, without fighting, just curled in perfect formation in my yard.
No, there is just no plausible explanation other than someone
some stranger walked across my yard, came up to my house
probably peered into this very window that I’m staring out of now
passed judgment on the state of my kitchen, the sink full of dishes
the cobwebs perpetually forming in the high corners by the stove
decided me and my house weren’t worth more than just this one look.