beneath the evening shroud
richard perkins
This is a rare occurance, the weatherperson confesses -
But not without precedent. Four powdery inches of
Snow in late October and already the heaters are
Churning as if itıs the lull time between Christmas and
The new year. Like bulky afghans draped over the
Back of the living room couch, my daughter and I
Gaze outside through a crystalline-edged window -
Listening intently as every snowflake regathers in
Unique formation, each with a new story to tell.
As a dormant soil, the entire world lies open before us,
And voices tremble with an ordinary and mystical hush.
Our home is grown warm with conversion, and like
Flowers at dusk, my childıs eyes begin to slump, closing
Upon their shallow reservoirs.
She wakens slightly as I cradle her guileless form,
Carrying my small love up the stairs to be lain in the
Crumbled liquid of her bed. For the barest moment,
We exist in that deeper place, looking at one another
So that we ache with an unconcealable euphony. This
Will become a time in years to pass, that each of us
Will not fail to remember. I ask her if sheıd like me to
Read the old story about the puppet, the lantern, and
The moth. She says no, not tonight, because the world,
You know, is already too filled with stories.
I turn off the light, our long shadows disappear and
We are together in a patchwork slip of moonlight.
This is the beginning of a new story which I cannot tell
Her because she is already breathing slowly, and
Unlike the snow plow rumbling past just now, is
Grappling with a cloaked essential, flapping like an
Angel in drifted snow, deeply, deeply at rest.
