In early April
an arctic storm
is spilling snowflakes.
She peels away the sheets
and slips toward the kitchen;
silk robe gliding
gently to the floor.
The tea kettle screams
with hot wet steam;
ceramic coffee cups spiked
with Morning Thunder and cinnamon sticks.
I wipe the windowpane fog,
watch seagulls wing thru crystal mist.
Neighbors busy with shovels,
carpool for groceries;
tire tracks tattooing the glazed asphalt.
Rust colored snowplow scrapes like a razor blade
tapering white granular lines
across a glass tabletop.
The world keeps spinning its wheels
while we patiently explore
the familiar contours of flesh and bone.
Snow-blind, I bury my face
in the crest of her thighs,
her fingernails carving slaloms
down the slope of my back.
Soft plush
of thick white down
swells beyond our horizons;
white powder
consuming the landscape;
consuming everything.
* Ben Rasnic lives in Maryland, works in Virginia, drives the Capital Beltway on a daily basis and is not surprised by anything he sees along the way.
SNOW-BLIND