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.