by Susan Cossette
for Herm and Phyllis
Artwork by Maren Nelson
“Days pass, years vanish. And we walk sightless among miracles.”
The clothes dryer steam melts the ice on the deck—
Windy wafts of snow blow from the neighbor’s roof,
Swirling, a misty cascade through the knotted threads of trees
Towering toward the vast midwestern sky.
The orange cat curls on the table beside me while I write.
He knows he shouldn’t but does so anyway.
He tries to drink my tea.
I am me, I am me . . .
I sleep, I dream.
Disjointed snapshots from long days,
And from those long past—
Each equal in their immediacy.
What does any of this matter?
I feel it lately, this passage of time.
I wait for those moments,
Look for signs of the divine—
The sadness over what I have left behind
Is a measure of my love.
Every day has become a minor miracle of sorts.