By Greta Anderson

No snow today,
just heavy frosting,
floating in large flakes
from trees
like glittering leaves.
I carry a steaming bucket
and choose a spot
behind the rangy filbert hedge.
A darkish turd nearby
implies the dog's assent
to the zoning.
The snow--rotten, granular--
feels like sand against the panties.
It's that time of year
time speeds up
or seems to
in its new wide-openness.
Scrub, rinse, squeeze.
Scrub, rinse, squeeze.
I do not count the incidents,
as I will in April, May,
but, in the thrall of this odd rhythm
appeal to time itself: Go easy,
give my girl a chance
to catch up.
Then I let my prayer go.
I let it run out
with the snow and brown water.
The blue and white
is beautiful
and I am glad to be out
in it.