The mountains are sharp in clear air,
angles simple in snow above the valley’s
folded fields, their contours gone
under layers laid on by routine storms.
Your daughter screams unshawled
in my strange arms, her face
a mess of tears and creases
older than we are now.
Her anger is mobile, jagged
around the room, as jutting
uplands beyond her temper
their mantled view.
No comments:
Post a Comment