Shawtuc Hill
by Patricia Brodie

Snow covers the frozen river
climbs its banks and sparkles across the wetlands.
Treetops, a thousand arthritic fingers,
clutch at a china blue sky.

Not wanting to stay indoors
we put on boots, jackets
trudge through the meadow with the dog.
Snow, so deep, now stained by a setting sun
stills our talk.

Back home, we phone our children:
free spirits speak of jobs, faraway lives
as we watch night crawl across the frigid landscape.
Icicles hang from the eaves,
prison bars across our bedroom window.

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