This is a poem for my mother and my sister who are here.
First Snow.
We'll let TPD do what TPD does, which is not prevent crime.
First Snow.
November's commotion settles on my shoulders like good fortune.
I'm still delighted by the white idea
that's begun to fill the city.
Accumulation and decree specific under my boot.
Remember us mother.
You post-partum sister asleep in another room
I had you to myself again, we stood
against the cold and foreign light of the Utah winter
window.
The snow falling hours on end, and my childhood delight
with a constant flurry.
Our faces reflected in spite of frosted panes
and I could see you fill with sorrow
as each astonishing flake tilted through our view.
I know now as the city forgets itself
in the chaos and grace of ice how you
yearn south missing the desert.
The way I watch out this window missing you
with each gathering star.