I want to hang your picture, sad in the hall,

you who’ve been neglected all these months—

with your face turned to the wall and me

 

wrongly insisting that hanging your picture was

nothing more than a temporal act.

 

The way the sun struck that certain tree this morning

made the leaves white with meaning,

though thick dust had collected,

under each parlor chair.

 

“There are shadows to deal with,” I said.

 

To deal with a shadow is to bind it forever.

 

Nothing’s powerful as forever

unless it’s just gone.

 

from Paper Snowflakes, available from Southern Hum Press