Visiting Palmyra

In autumn, I envision April, 
dry gray trees restored to their budding leaves,
the boy to his knees in blossoms

and my Emma and I, hand in hand, cold 
this November weekend driving in angels’
footsteps. Instead of numb ears, squirrel

scamp, and train song, imagine a sea 
of glass and fire. Replace gale-force gusts 
and geese squawk with glory. Or remember

December 1819, that winter before spring,
when it seemed that nothing had happened 
yet. Don’t forget that aching part, waiting

for a vision to start. We left the grove for 
Harmony and stopped for pizza near the 
Susquehanna. If that’s the lesson—dark

before light—it’s too simple, and hard 
as a firstborn’s gravestone. But on the 
highway home, when night’s thick dark

seizes our tongues, snowflakes descend 
gradually until they fall upon us. I see 
them appear in each passing streetlamp

pole: intermittent pillars of electric glow.