• 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}


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