by Rob Littler
I see her coming
Through the door with groceries
Keys fumbling and the light
Through the morning
Window darkens a shadowed
Face. She can hear the snowplow
Scrape, feeling the sparks
On her cheek. She says, “I can
Smell the cold.” Her hair is matted
And under her feet the linoleum is
Brilliant and white except
For where it meets the floorboards.
If shoulders could sigh
Gasps of great air would rise from
Under the corduroy draped across
Her, but they can’t and she knows it
Will be a few minutes before the moment
Passes, like all the moments before and
After. She is telling herself to just
Breathe this breath. Keep one eye
Open to the sound of nearing birds
And one ear open to the accumulating
Grime on the edges of the floor.
Posted on 01/27/2012
Copyright © 2019 Rob Littler
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Shannon McEwen on 01/27/12 at 04:01 PM|
Power packed imagery here
|Posted by Alison McKenzie on 01/27/12 at 09:03 PM|
What clarity of a moment captured!!!
|Posted by Jim Benz on 06/15/12 at 12:03 AM|
"If shoulders could sigh"--I think they do, or at least I've seen it often enough. And I can see it here too. Good poem, Rob.