First Snow

She came, still as breath, in the night.

By dawn, light reflecting off her myriad mirrors
slips through the blinds
of my bedroom window,
drawing me out.

On the radio
low-volume accounts of bombs
and numbers dead,
loud images of blood-drenched earth.

While in the street, sounds are muted.
Gently, peace falls down,
dusting each least thing:

hard asphalt

fallen cottonwood leaf

discarded plastic bag

speeding car

small bird

lonely shoulder

my warm cheek

with indiscriminate love.

—Carolyn. Kinsman