Issue 17, Autumn-Winter 1957
Our mittened hands upon the snow-capped stone,
we stood and watched what once was river zag
a black and crazy trickle through the ice.
The bridge was not enough to heal the gap
that severs brothers’ hands. Our minds were one.
Her patience was a hopeless miracle.
Boxed in a narrowness she always feared,
and housed in solid cold she was too thin
to stand, she took it kindly, like herself,
who all that day had not been like herself.
The music could have pleased her; even more
these named, familiar trees, this cobbled stream
that from her youth had memorized her face.