To My Daughter Who is Late for School

Late November. It is morning.
My daughter and I drive through the soaring
Snow outside of the town
In the white and opened ground
Past the fields’ fallow larches.

Surrounded we are mostly lost.
On the road winds criss-cross.
Pale moss glosses glass.
Mennonite horses pass.
I steer behind their tick-tock marches.

Girl, time pulls and unconsoles.
It whips your glowing neck, the cold.
It falls so soon, so soon.
It will ruin.
My daughter, through it the car charges.

 

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