Snow Storm

Snow Storm


You meant to bring ice cream, you said.
We sat in the sun room and watched
as heavy February rain
washed old leaves into muddy rows.

Wind slammed water against my tin roof that night,
and we moved our bodies to its ancient rhythm.
I laughed at our noises, and you kissed me until
hunger became greater than sound.

While we slept,
laced together under the cedar scent
of my grandmother’s knotted quilt,
rain changed to snow.

We had popovers, with butter
and berries, for breakfast.
You made coffee, and I lied
when I said it was perfect.

We sat on a sofa in the sun room,
watched snow falling, and I thought;
it would have been nice
to have ice cream.


Shirley Alexander
© 2010