Deborah H. Doolittle

Last Light

A Quartz contentment, like a stone —
— Emily Dickinson

After a great rain,

a colder feeling comes

when trees sit shiva

in the faltering sun.

I ask the stiff air

how ice is formed,

the same as last year,

and winters before?

Like fingerprints, each flake

whirls around and down,

descends and leaves its frosted points,

its own imprint on the ground.

This is the hour I dread

when jagged moments

of Grandma have her shred

white paper molding snow:

first eyelets, the final light

tearing in the darkened window.