The Whitening
by Janet I. Buck

I waken to the soapy lather of snow
on an almost silent street.
A row of stranded cars
like creamy sundaes in a dish.
Giddy children on the grass --
now fresher than its autumn waste
gone amber straw, flat from rain.


White flecks the size of infant hands
spread themselves across black tar.
A present in our mailbox --
a petroglyph of sassy ice.
Staffs of angels prance the roof --
this blood-stained world turning, 
in grace, to a spotless page. 

©