by Elizabeth Spires
In the end it was the only story to tell:
snow on the ground and snow silently falling,
the landmarks of a life vanishing, the road
erased, a house half-buried, a watcher watching
from an upper window who knows she cannot
stay and cannot go, she cannot stay or go,
who, as evening falls, steps back into a cold interior,
feeling her way along the winding corridors
until the deepening snow has overtaken all.
When the last of the last ones go, if I am one
of the last, the last to believe and the last to know,
when Eternity unwrites me, when an unseen hand
lets loose the pen that wrote my story, and directionless,
I step out of the frame into a snowy unfenced field,
my tracks filling up as fast as I can make them,
then will I know the story in its entirety?
Know all that I need to know?
The now that is snow.