There's a certain surrender
to being an optimist-one which begins
with the day but, in fact, begins
with the evening. With dusk
crocheted into winter & a girl's dress
hanging by the hem of nightfall.
We find things most beautiful
in the act of their dying. Bright
red leaves. A refusal to eat. The child
who goes to school & the mother
who drives back from school
alone. Yet here, the birds are so lurid
against an opalness of sky. The rain,
serener than we'd ever imagined. Someone,
always, to speak with ease & someone
to cover the eyes. Let me contemplate
my own role in this, or let me burrow within a frailty
of prayer. The cold, an interminable elegy.
There's nothing left to forgive. Twice,
I was long ago buried. I discover
this thing called snow.
Snow, Almost, Nearly by Susan L. Leary | Sandalwood Poetry Reed Diffuser
Susan L. Leary is the author of six poetry collections, including SENTENCE (Nine Syllables Press, forthcoming fall 2026), selected by Eugenia Leigh to win the Nine Syllables Press Chapbook Contest; More Flowers (Trio House Press, 2026); Dressing the Bear (Trio House Press, 2024), selected by Kimberly Blaeser to win the Louise Bogan Award; and A Buffet Table Fit for Queens (Small Harbor Publishing, 2023), winner of the Washburn Prize. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in such places as North American Review, Indiana Review, Cream City Review, Third Coast, Smartish Pace, Diode Poetry Journal, The Arkansas International, and Verse Daily. She holds an MFA from the University of Miami and lives in Indianapolis, IN. Visit her at www.susanlleary.com.
