I did not want
to return from Mexico
to Illinois where snow
covered everything.
My breath was visible
as I deplaned
through the walkway
into O’Hare.
But I went out
next morning
into air so crisp,
into a world alive
with white:
white on,
white against,
white around,
white above
as new flakes fell,
a world painted,
molded, brushed
with its own
particular light.
Copyright 2009. Wlida Morris. All rights reserved.