Grace

Outside, wind sweeps the snow,
rattling panes, drifting
fine white dust to gentle slopes.
An old window breathes its damp
chill on my face. I'm on ice,
wrapped in a tartan quilt, waiting
for a crack of light through the door.

I close my eyes, see that first stretch
of coast after a long drive. Open sky.
A distant sail. Hot white sand. Smooth
glistening stones. A perfect scallop shell.

But here, now, tiny hooves of snow
patter the glass. I place my warm palm
Against the cold pane and say yes.

Copyright © 2003 The President and Fellows of Harvard College.
All rights reserved. Comments. Last modified Tue, Dec 9, 2003.