Cory Brown
To see how the snow blanketed the trees
along Taughannock Creek Road, I turned off
Route 96 this morning. It was as if, as geese
maybe, angels had waved their wings to scoff
at the ordinary. All the white made me think
of my father in his coffin many years ago,
and of my dear brother, who I watched sink
into his grave just last week, at 70, but a blow
to me as if he’d been much younger, his arm
like cardboard when I patted it. His death
was as natural as a snowfall, nothing to alarm
anyone about, but something about breath
makes us think it’s as constant as the sun,
like a long steady creek going on and on.
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