by Gil Hoy
I’m watching the snow fall
through my kitchen window,
pine trees are crusted with snow.
White shadowed in black,
a squally wind is filled with snow.
The phone rings. My sister Sally
is calling. Mother passed away
this morning.
I’m sitting all alone
in my apartment, unpacking boxes
loaded with dishes to fill my cabinets.
I’m told my apartment is 100 years old.
Will I ever see Mother again?
I’m thinking about those
who lived here before me.
Were they lawyers, doctors,
professors, businessmen?
Were they mothers, fathers,
sisters, brothers? I don’t know
their names. I can’t see their faces.
Did they have families of their own?
How many others have looked
out this same window and watched
the same snow fall? Cold, dark and deep,
white shadowed in black, a squally wind
is filled with snow.
I’ve seen it over and over again.
The same snow, through the same window,
falling on the same frozen ground.
How did it get so late so early?
It’s only October and it’s already
snowing steadily. It’s only October
and it’s already snowing hard.
Pine trees are crusted with snow.
Cold, dark and deep,
a squally wind is filled with snow.