Julie Barbour
Photo: aturkus
Each morning I woke to an ocean of snow
and its gray sunless sky.
I walked down the black staircase
and fed myself in the kitchen,
handed the dogs my scraps, cleaned my own plate, then walked up the dark stairs
to the room where the winter wind snarled.
I gazed past the bare snow-lined branches of the Sugar Maple,
past rooftops, into the mountains of Canada.
I knew nothing would be different there,
the sky and winter the same. I went anyway.
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