He drove the fresh plowed road surely,
so surely that my distrustful body-
years of my mother’s frantic tailgating to stave off
my father’s jealous, controlling clasp of rage-
relaxed and turned off the alarms.
sharp pitched cabin roof
with a song of hearth and home in fragrant wood smoke
curling from the chimney pipe.
We’d spoon, warm in winter snow silence.
Private and unsought.
In the lines of his stoic, Nebraska face I saw the hidden skills.
Snow skills for sure,
I’d watched him shovel crisp geometric divisions
I’d seen him plow, no wasted motion, clearing big, clean piles unobtrusively
My breaths made steamy circles on the window as I watched-
With my California snow- wondering eyes
“What are you looking at?” he glanced my way.
It was a snowfield,
fresh from horizon to horizon,
a mystery of pines set well back.
I said, “The sparkles in the snow”
for there they danced,
scintillating like the happy, noiseless chuckling of God.
He drove another quarter mile
Then pulled the Sable to the roadside.
“I’ve never seen that before” he said.
I gawked in disbelief, but was quiet.
“Thank you for the ways you’ve let me see.”
I felt then, deep and blooming in my center
That whole worlds are layered
One over another
And sometimes we can watch the birth
Of a new perception.