Snowfall in G Minor
by Marianne Boruch
Overnight, it’s pow! The held note keeps falling. And only seems slow. Because it’s just frozen rain, what’s the big deal? the checker in Stop and Shop told me. Save warmth like stamps. The fade of their color in the 1920s. Airmail. The pilot with his skin-tight goggle helmet on his miniature head could be snow-blind. All heads are small. Mine’s lost as a thimble in this weather. Where a finger should be and be sewing, every thought I ever thunk. Just this word thunk. Never used. It lands, noisy metal in a bucket. That’s the last of it. No echo for miles of this snowfall—as in grace, fallen from, as in a great height, released from its promise.