It doesn’t matter who answers
the phone, it’s the same forecast:
snow following snow,
road closed followed by Jessie
returning to John, wrist healed
and you can hardly tell anything
went wrong, until she waves hello.
Or is it goodbye. You know, this much
cold, this high, batters the eye
until all it sees is warmth. The girls
lining up crayons before dinner.
Coals orange as a daffodil’s trumpet.
So easy to forget tomorrow’s ash.
In a ghost town, bowls of thin soup
steam on every edge. Nothing
can hurt us. The pioneers. We forget why
we came—but look at that mountain.
Was anything ever so new?