The Alchemy of Writing

Emily Ferrara

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The Winter After

Sitting in my room before sunrise
I clasp my breath. Since yesterday
snow has been falling, hushed,
measurable in feet. By my bed
the window screen fills with snow.
I am blind to the lake below,
its ashen face, its brokenness.
I am lashed to icefields.
Unseen geese bleed
through this gauze, dispassionate.
They fill the air with howling.
What does it matter?
This is not their story.

I made an altar in his room.
The ceramic Buddha, muted
gold and taupe, holds
his guitar pick in a cupped palm.
The figure is draped with two cloths,                                                                                                        Photo copyright 2007 Judith M. Daniels.
gifts friends gave me at the funeral:
a red and ochre prayer scarf,
a hundred-year-old handkerchief to hold
the grief of a mother for her son.

I go to his room, bow down
to my penance, open
the bureau drawer, choose a sweater--
today olive green trimmed gray.
'You never wear your own clothes anymore'
says my daughter, wondering
what's become of her mother.

Copyright 2006, First published in
The Worcester Review

copyright @2010 by Emily Ferrara