When the Morning is a Prayer by Kathleen Cassen Mickelson

How do I talk about fresh snow that still
delights me after a lifetime of Minnesota
winters or the sliver of moon embedded in
pre-dawn sky or the way oak limbs hold
frost to cover their leafless-ness?

It all fills me as if I am unwrapping
gift after gift after gift.
Sunrise viewed from our bedroom
window while our old red dog
leans against my right side, my hand
on her head, light beneath crows’
wings as they cross my vision. I can hear
them, hear the dog breathe, house
sigh, and you creak the mattress

as you turn over to ask me what I see.

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