Snow | Carol L. Gloor
Two more inches fall the fourth day
after my father’s funeral, the day
I can’t find my scarf, the red one
my mother crocheted,
and I panic.
But I have done this business before,
of living in every season.
In winter wear boots everyday
and do not forget the house keys.
The cold does not forgive.
Every other day, two inches more snow,
a record forty by the end of February.
One night the first week of March the wind
rattles the windows, the radio says six inches
by morning, and when I finally sleep
I dream my parents
in a booth at Carson’s Restaurant,
ordering burger specials for a buck twenty-five.
I bend to embrace them, smelling his Old Spice,
her Wind Song, bending,
as we all disappear.
Carol Gloor is an ancient woman living on the shores of the Mississippi River in far northwest Illinois. She’s been published in many journals (most recently The Kerf and Riverrun.), and her chapbook, Assisted Living, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2013. She tries to tell the truth, and as Emily Dickinson said, she tells it slant.