glimpses of snow banks falling
salt
momentos in dark black dots of old pieces
familiar
once a part of your life and melted
in snow in spring, a mitten, hockey glove puck.
Recovered
My mother tied the mittens on with string
made of wool by grandma watson they would shrink
and muffle, get smaller and smaller
til they only fit the smallest, then got lost
under snow.
Red or blue.
And i would know a friend
only by her snowsuit. Her face wrapped
up frost on the eyelashes, we are marching
down the road to school.
Every day. I hardly remember
but for the marching.
Can’t remember undressing. Except for
puddles. Far reaching into corridors.
And shoes inside of boots
A mother doing six of them. Boots with buckles
Heaps of them
at the door, at home,
at friends, coats and boots
sweaters, hats, snowpants. Everything is
shiny slick, damp.
And finding yours in the pile, yours
are red this year. Passed down through
hundreds of distant brothers and sisters
you are fittest red cheeked
and hungry for soup hot chocolate.
-jody terio
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