Ann Arbor Review

INSIDE THIS ISSUE:

Geoffrey Philip
Joseph McNair
Chris Lord
Coleman Barks
Dave Etter
Elisavietta Ritchie
Sam Cornish
Duane Locke
Karyn Wolven
Marisella Veiga
Michael D. Long
Running Cub
Joanie Freeman
Alan Britt
Shutta Crum
Steve Beaulieu
Gerald Clark
Mary E. Finlan
Fred Wolven

SNOWFALL

I never thought that snow,
so soft in its infancy,
could cut the way it did.

My hand,
running along the surface of
your frozen arm,
came away red.
I only meant to brush
the falling snow
away.

Beneath the latticed surface
of crystals and light
lay a blade
whose edge was indiscriminate.

I could have been
anyone's hand cut,
but mine so innocently
sweeping the snow,
could never be the same again.

How smug in my naiveté,
my seasons of husband and family,
my days filled with the wonder
of snow.

Yours,
I thought I knew--
and now you have
changed me.
I see the intricacies of snowflake
and drift
both pleasing and terrifying.

Snow is secretive.
It hides both the knife
and the wound.

What frightens
is not the immediate bleeding,
but the honed edge--
hidden.



Shutta Crum

 


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