Graduating to Wet Stones

Acquiescence They say it is now winter in Michigan though she can't remember when it wasn't. The useless sun hangs well over the Tropic of Capricorn: late afternoon suspended in gray. A rush of dry arctic rustles the blinds rattles the window: a sound like the sea roaring against glass. Great Lakes splendor pales in late October. Off a distant coast southeast winds drift seaward over southern Italy. But here the air is dusty with old snow; she dreams sirocco and steaming Mediterranean. Deep into midnight within the speechless expanse of black, stars flash like bits of broken glass, while the moon offers a sliver of conciliatory illumination: a shred of bleached light paying brief notice to a thousand blades of frozen grass. An unexpected moment of elegance, or a promise to the courageous: one day she'll cease waking to cold earth.

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