at 1260 Wilcox Avenue are silent with storybook snow.
Death turns her car into the driveway,
pauses as the engine’s rumbling dies,
steps out into the hushed gray.
She walks to the back door but stops a moment
facing the flat, white yard, wanders out
into the fresh snow, lowering herself
toward the ground. It’s wonderfully cold.
She lies down in the crispness. Sunlight blushes
onto the lawn. Her limbs spread wide,
quiet and small and shifting. When she sits up,
she sees what the neighbor girls have made.
A snowman, a snow mother, clumps of snow children.
Even a little snow dog with marbles for eyes.
She thinks of this family gathered
around a table eating their dinners.
What brilliant flashes must begin in their minds
as they settle to sleep, what joy in the parents
as they hold each other tonight and dream of melting here,
giving themselves back, puddling out of this very world.