Last Light
A Quartz contentment, like a stone —
— Emily Dickinson
After a great rain,
a colder feeling comes
when trees sit shiva
in the faltering sun.
I ask the stiff air
how ice is formed,
the same as last year,
and winters before?
Like fingerprints, each flake
whirls around and down,
descends and leaves its frosted points,
its own imprint on the ground.
This is the hour I dread
when jagged moments
of Grandma have her shred
white paper molding snow:
first eyelets, the final light
tearing in the darkened window.