Anticipation of Snow

Of course the night is dark,
no moon, no stars. Even
the darkness holds its breath, or
Is it only me?  The sharp, electric air
presses down on the silent black pavement
I follow home. Inside,
of course there is a violin
retracing the vexing etude intervals,
the brightness of many lamps, fading supper smells.
Outside, the power of something so much larger
hovers, promising tomorrow
will once again reveal us small, and snug,
celebrating our loss of power,
and snow.

Mary for The Poplar Grove Muse