There’s No February Tomorrow

Only this etching of trees
hung in the sky
as a sign
that I’ll never be 43
and the snowstorm will not come
the cards will be left unopened
I will never have to puzzle it out,
what to do next,
how much time I have left,
because it will always be like this —
our dishwasher going,
a neighbor washing clothes downstairs,
James and I both typing,
our children waiting
in suspended animation
to be released from “quiet time.”


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