My eyes see the road but my hands
steer the wheel, car ahead,
snow banks to my right,
more snow falling. It feels
like a hundred years
now and still I have not
heard from you my daughter.
The daughter that was just a wish,
a dream, an incessant urge,
a tug to the infinite
and so I reached my hands
up and pulled you down
from clouds full of precipitation,
the month was November that
you were born, the isle of snow,
but conceived in February
on Valentine’s Day, my hands
full of the eyes of your father,
the sky filled with snowflakes.
Laura Rodley, Pushcart Prize winner, is a quintuple Pushcart Prize nominee and quintuple Best of Net nominee. Latest books: Turn Left at Normal by Big Table Publishing, Counter Point by Prolific Press, and just off the press, As You Write It Lucky Lucky 7, a collection of 11 writers' work.
