Snow spitting down like a demented inmate
she kept the car steered just beyond the ditch
rosary beads well tucked
potatoes cooked, ready to be warmed
whirling of wheels and whirling of snow
not Catholics but congregants aching to live
the three of us breathed a little deeper
when the driveway hove into view
the burro just down from us sighing into his whiskers.
Down spitting, a patient too angry to be pilled
dampening coats and gloves and groceries
the wooden deck reached we bid adieu
the Grand Old Man shaking his fist outside our walls
we sat to table, steaming food,
our hush now a shout in the absence of blinding white spillage.