The grass frozen stiff, the town changed
To a black and white pen drawing, nibs of different
Thickness etching each blade,
Yaupon berries blurred in the cauls of ice
And the glazed branches crackling overhead.

Mist circles the dogs’ heads, they look
Like cartoon dogs exchanging friendly insults.
But they don’t like the slippery grass
Or the frozen patches they slide on in the street.
The dogs are black and white and fit the scene.

I like stepping into the past like that,
Thinking it could be my grandfather’s oaks
We pass under, trees he stands beneath
In the only photo I have of him, circa 1940.
He too always had some dogs with him.

The white truck spraying gravel could be his,
If I just don’t put my glasses on. I wave
At the invisible driver, turn back home.
Wind cuts through my coat, rattles the trees.
The branches sound like wind chimes, only darker.

© by Janet McCann.
Used with the author’s permission.