As the Orange County to Chicago Flight Landed

Hello Dear Ones! How are you? No, really, how are you?

I am sitting here in the hardest part of a Midwest American winter, watching decency slowly erode and this country become ever more dangerous for people I love. And. The winter light is still the most clear and sparkling. A cheeky robin is taunting my cat through the closed window. There are flowers on my mantelpiece. In short, it’s complicated. Lately, every simple things seems to unfold into more and more complex layers, like the moment that inspired today’s draft.

Just as the plane doors opened in Chicago,

the little girl said, "I want to catch snowflakes on my tongue, mommy!"

We smiled, those of us who heard,

feeling hopeful until the February chill

brushed our cheeks as we stepped onto the jet bridge.

We pulled our thin California sweaters tight,

rushed into the crowded terminal.

For myself, as I found my hat and gloves in my luggage, I wondered:

Who is going to tell her?

Who will tell her that, while you stand with mouth open,

wait for something like sugar on your tongue,

what you actually taste is nothing?

The shock of tiny cold and immediate melt,

water evaporates before you think to hold it.

Who will tell her that, yes, there is magic in the snowstorm -- but --

to feel it you must stand outside in the cold

until the tips of your fingers ache,

until the marrow in your bones starts to shiver --

that you must lean back your head,

let snowflakes land, stinging, in your open eyes

as they transform to diamonds in the streetlights?