This is a poem about a snow angel, but in another way it could also be a poem about poetry itself. When you write a poem you bring something into the world….something that will have a life separate from you.

Snow Angel

It’s easy to make one,

lying on your back

in the newest snow.

You sweep your arms

up and down to make

a pattern that looks like wings.

Later you forget your creation,

go inside for some hot chocolate.

That’s when she rises from the snow,

takes a feathery breath, tries her wings.

She skims over frozen lakes

like the faintest handwriting.

Later when you climb beneath the covers

she peers in through your frosty window,

happy you called her into the world.

from A Writing Kind of Day