Wet Paper

Back home it is probably snowing.

With unrealistic nostalgia I imagine it:
big soft flakes drifting from a silent sky.

Here it rains, where the rest of the year it never rains.
Drivers panic. Traffic jumbles. Morning commutes grind to a wet stop.
In the mountains cars are swept into ravines.
I step over the brown rivers in the streets.
Spain hunches its shoulders and advises me to wear a scarf.

In plásticas classes we make paper snowflakes.
Big soft quiet flakes melt
into the humid effort of explaining symmetry and intricate folds,
drowned in the swelling stumbling waves of English vowels.

Lopsided lace begins to drift off desks, scattering paper dust.
Children catch their breath as they creak open their creations.

My heart catches, too, somewhere among the sharp edges.
The windows have filled themselves up with blue again. I cover them in snow.


4 Responses to Wet Paper

  1. Chelsea says:

    i want to mail you something, but i want to make sure it will get to you 😦 i fear the post office and the destiny of the last letter.

  2. Chelsea says:

    also, i think i am going to cover our windows in paper snowflakes like that.

  3. saracita says:

    I went and asked at the post office and they had nothing for me. 😦 You could try mailing it to my school – I have always gotten things sent to me there. I’ll email you the address…

  4. Andrew says:

    I love the poem.

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