Dana Butler
Frost
From January 14, 2021
We traipse
bleary-eyed
out to the car,
parked out front
-rather than garaged-
to give the workmen
uninterrupted access
to the drive.
Morning sun just
beginning its
upward journey
behind our trees,
only a few rays
shooting thinly
westward
toward
our Carolina
cul-de-sac.
Children gasp in
confusion: “Mom,
WHY?
What is that white
stuff on grass
and leaves and
everything?! Did
it snow?!”
My children,
-I realize-
have never in
their memory witnessed
enchantment like
this before. This
light, fresh,
glistening blanket
over the world—
this, beloveds,
is frost.
And no morning
dew in dry
Colorado means
no frost, either.
So children
gape wide in
confusion
and sigh in
borderline
annoyance at
minutes lost as
their mother
prances about,
childishly delighted,
capturing
magic.
{Prompt: Fresh - #hopewriterlife challenge}
