advisory
The warning from the weather service came:
tomorrow you will be confronted with
the unfamiliar memory of a year
ago, when just before Thanksgiving Day,
unseasonably early, fell such gifts
of snow that homebound busybodies feared
for their commute, and in the cold the trees
stood braced and shivering beside the road,
and frost flocked cedar limbs resplendent in
an alb and stole of quietness were leaned
long suffering above the low cold stones
of Brush Point. Following your tracks through drifts
of snow like fallen waves, you’ll crest the last
to see a plot prepared for burial,
dug down to dirt and clouded in a mist
of well intended words: forgiveness asked,
a benediction lingering to fall
to earth as gently as a parting kiss.