On this sunny morning. I know the snow will follow.
This time next week I will be having surgery.
Here's a poem from my book How the Hand Behaves:
Garden gloves huddled
in a paper bag hanging on a hook
by the window where the ice clotted
bare branches quiver
and the sun sends their gnarled shadows on the snow below.
Garden gloves clean, soft, bleachy perfume,
stained brown and green,
some holy fingers clutch each other
while they wait.