Remembering the first snow
By Michael Koehler
Crossing the Library parking lot before any one
or anything else holds a ghost of magic for me.
The newly bare trees, too young to be bold
and too wild to not show off,
hold out their arms and stand real still.
I stop in the middle of the lot,
at the end of a line of footprints.
The transit buses are beautiful,
the dumpsters are calm and clean.
The bundled-up street people move briskly
as the sun rises over the apartments and offices.
I forget, sometimes, to be, like the trees, still.
I do nothing corny like stretch out my arms and pirouette
in the snow, but I smile, and watch my neighborhood,
and for a moment I am wealthy beyond rich.
Michael Koehler lives in Little Chute, Wis. The poem appears here with his permission.
— Charlie Rossiter lives in Bennington and writes about poetry.
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