the sweeping shape as the poet with broom in hand, attempts to make it all neat and tidy and in the dustpan and then taken to the sidewalk. the piled-up words, a children's story that starts on one page and proceeds to the end. but life rarely comes with readymade pages. the illustrator needs to color the images or interpret the rhymes with a sharp wit or a wink or a hidden mouse in the corner of every page. or how about a moon rising? or a chocolate chip cookie, with a bite taken out? or perhaps a caterpillar? so many ways to color the pages of the day, s weeping up the words into the bin , tidying the edges, knowing that the words will need to be tidied tomorrow too. so the poet puts away her broom, sails from the room, returns to the page, stays on the shape of today's story, hoping to spark a thought of domesticity, of home.
Ice slides into cracks on bridges. Do not cross. Reports indicate more is on the way. Freezing cold and flakes fall, only following the tug of gravity. Looking to land in a home on sidewalks slick. Just water, frozen, bright, looking to land.