Finally, a poem fresh from the oven.
I see the snow has fallen overnight,
pure and shining as the New Jerusalem
set down outside my kitchen window.
Cupping a white mug of black coffee,
I peer into woods white as angels’ wings.
Each limb, every twig bears a fragile froth of glory.
Now, before the sander rumbles through
and the school bus intrudes its bright yellow racket,
before the wind rises to knock all askew–all is well.
One quiet moment, as in between the breathing in
and the long exhalation, to savor what day could be,
before it slushes down into what day will be.
—Dale Hobson, February 28, 2013