Molly O’Dell

For a few hours the snow stops.
I trek outside the hospital,
 
through sepia-toned scenes cast on tin.
Not much of night’s left.  Patients finally
 
rest.  Snow-covered ground matches sky,
magnifies light that precedes sunrise.
 
The reason birds take cover in shrubs
becomes clear:  lower limbs branch
 
like Venetian fans and tiny sticks gnarl
and cross a crooked trunk that forks every
 
which way.  Snow waits to fall again, two hydrogens clamor, midair, for oxygen.
 
When I reach the healing garden, Jesus’
lap is full of snow.  More’s wet than just
 
his knees and toes.  Moisture wears against ordinary. 
First light announces day.