“Days pass, years vanish. And we walk sightless among miracles.”
The clothes dryer steam melts ice on the deck—
Windy wafts of snow blow from the neighbor’s roof,
swirling through the knotted threads of trees
towering to the vast Midwestern sky.
The orange cat curls on the table beside me while I write.
He knows he shouldn’t but does so anyway.
He tries to drink my tea.
I sleep, I dream,
disjointed snapshots of those long past.
Each equal in their immediacy.
I feel it lately, this passage of time.
I wait for those moments,
look for signs of the divine.
The sadness over what I have left behind,
a measure of my love.
Susan Cossette lives and writes in Minneapolis, Minnesota. The Author of Peggy Sue Messed Up, she is a recipient of the University of Connecticut’s Wallace Stevens Poetry Prize. A two-time…
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