Dry snowflakes swarm like bees
around a trellis of bare grape and wisteria vines.
The white frenzy could stir any thoughts,
but it brings back memories of my first boyfriend:
We run through a field after a friend’s party,
holding hands in moonlight … He smiles
across the band room, takes up his drum sticks.
I adjust my bassoon strap, soften the reed
on my tongue, smile back … He stops
in the hall to ask me to prom—
my hair unwashed, glasses smudged.
Worst of all, I get good grades.
All summer I wait for his call. In September,
I look out the school window. There he is
by a red pickup, helping a dark-haired girl
climb from the front seat. I feel a gate close.
Now, a dry puff from the silk tree scuttles
over the walk. Snowflakes fly sideways.
Delicate, white flakes, not fully formed.
If I focus on one, it disappears.
