He came to the window beside me
\nrubbing his tough hands on a red rag.<\/p>\n
“That’s a neat pattern of shadows
\non the snow,” I said, feeling poetic:
\n“long parallel blue lines.”<\/p>\n
He stood, thoughtful, wary, perhaps
\nof connecting to poetry; he had
\nhis status as a mechanic to uphold.<\/p>\n
He had just changed
\nthe rear wheel bearing
\non my aging perfect car.<\/p>\n
“We had an amazing thing happen
\nright in that field a few weeks ago:
\nthousands of snowballs all sizes,
\nrolled by the wind as if children
\nhad played all night without
\nleaving a single trace, not a footprint.
\nIt was magical.”<\/p>\n
He sighed, retreated to the side
\nof my aging perfect car.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
He came to the window beside me rubbing his tough hands on a red rag. “That’s a neat pattern of shadows on the snow,” I said, feeling poetic: “long parallel blue lines.” He stood, thoughtful, wary, perhaps of connecting to … Continue reading