#13. After the Corona Snowstorm on Easter

Fat white flakes fall all evening, 

settle thickly on windowsills,  

cover familiar streets with zigzags of velvety chenille.

The worn out neighborhood where she's lived 

for too many years transforms to alabaster splendor.
Later she wakes, 3:10 AM, crawls from bed to the window, 

feels the cold press of glass against her skin.

The reality check is that fear and isolation rule her life.

Snowfall ended, faded vestiges of the super moon
shine through bare branches.
Tonight there's only moon glow on the new snow
and her husband asleep in the next room.
The past and the future have joined together,
but not the present. The present is gone.
She sits at her desk to write this,
tears flooding her eyes.