In a blizzard,
when a firetruck whinnies away
like a spooked horse — when the maples
flex and whirl and flex — when a cat fight
of snow thrashes the windowpane
— when your lover is twenty nine miles
down an ill-advised road, crawling
but driving home anyway, to you —
you have two choices: pray or cup
a snifter of brandy in those same
trembling hands as if it were
her jaw poking in through the door.
Image: ALEXANDRE DINAUT on Unsplash
Sweet and Bitter Greens 