This morning the sky became a snow bank
that made me long for a human face.
I ran toward the horizon
of my mother's eye, blink of blue
glance, cracking limb
of my father's voice.
Crystallized fields of stillness.

Some days the green hides everything,
some days the sun, but always
you sleep beneath a white waste,
lucky, though, to have walked out
and found a house with stars
in its windows and bubbling with water
from a secret spring in back
that wells through the slush.
Some days the snow bank
is just a snow bank. Some days
the snow is crossed by fire wheels.
 

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about the author:
Rachel Dacus' poetry collection, Earth Lessons (Bellowing Ark Press), was followed by a poetry-and-music CD, A God You Can Dance. Her poetry was anthologized in Ravishing DisUnities: Real Ghazals in English (Wesleyan University Press) and The Best of Melic (Melic Review), as well as in numerous journals, including Boulevard, Many Mountains Moving and North American Review. She is at work on a memoir, Rocket Lessons. More of her work can be found at www.dacushome.com.  

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