Raking in Winter

Like the woman who spent 

a life in this house.  

Cradle to grave 

the neighbour said

hand mid chest.

Just a little thing.  



Leaves or not 

she'd rake in any weather

chat with someone 

you'd swear was there

shout at Nazis 

over the fence even after 

the neighbour's coo:

no Jean it's me.  



Jean knew winters like this

where there's no liberating

the kitchen's trap cellar door 

only feeding the miming white 

that reaches for the window



until January's thaw 

turns snow to water 

to fog we hollow

toward the other side



and runoff from the glistening

kitchen foothills tries 

trapping us underground

heroes that translate 

its stubborn traces into snow

islands that have our rakes 

levelling peppered drumlins 



as the dog in anxious tongue 

and steel-plated ankle hobbles

down the archipelago.

© Marilyn Iwama