Wednesday, April 17, 2019
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.
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
Posted by Ralph Fletcher at 6:35 AM