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Snow Falls from Branches

Snow Falls from Branches

Snow Falls from Branches

by Damien Uriah

Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night;
should have boiled old coffee before noon.
Instead, I wince at mid-day half-light. Through the only window,
it reinvents this small apartment I will lose at the end of January.

I will choose to notice this unhurried moment, so I can bring it back
into the sweet salvation of the dream of winter,
the dream in which I am drying and sorting husk from seed.

Outside, the occasioned wind makes a dusting of snow leap
from ponderosa needles into the air, carrying daylight to the earth.
And thicker, blind white clusters lapse from bare aspen.
I think of how this is like a secondary snowfall
but with an even softer rhythm—like an accent on emptiness.

Beyond the trees however, cars groan over a highway.
I can hear them through the walls
running to a call to which perhaps, for survival, I should respond.

But then I remember a sermon I heard as a child.
The good Lord’s work
is already finished.

Damien Uriah once lived in the Pacific Northwest and now writes and teaches in the Ozark mountains. He received his MFA from Eastern Washington University. In addition to being a poet, Damien is a stone-mason, gardener, and musician.  His poems are published or forthcoming in The Cimarron ReviewHawaii Pacific ReviewThrushHeron TreeAbout Place Journal, and many others.