Icicles like ladies' fingernails
hang over the driveway, threatening
each day to fall.
The frost from last night's
snowfall twists through the air-it comes
off of anything solid, lifts from the dead
rose bushes left unsnipped, plastic bags
clinging madly in the thorns. Sometimes
I want to be like you-arising lemon mouthed
into the shower, water droplets
gliding down your surfaces.
You, who drive without wonder
everyday to work.
Sometimes I hide so well I can't find
even myself. It's easy to disappear. Over a bowl
of black-eyed peas it could be any day
and then you leave.