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Spring Snow
Spring snow fell on the lawn,
clumping in the pachysandra.
I could not tell endings from beginnings.
There were the deer striding
late in the afternoon
their day closing at sunset;
the squirrels leaving the yard,
done eating seed.
There was the beginning for me
when all the squirrels and deer first came
and the snowflakes fell
from the sky,
and I found out about light,
my breath making a circle on the window,
the snow dancing like dervishes
that morning.
Linda Benninghoff has just published Whose Cries Are Not Music, a book of poetry with Lummox Press. She has an MA in English with an emphasis on creative writing from Stony Brook.
Email: Linda Benninghoff
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