by Christine Swanberg
Dancing with the wind, slanted snow swivels,
salsa slashing the windows. We're snowed in.
A corner ice sickle hangs and drivels
like an intravenous glucose machine.
I put on salsa music and dance too,
a solo sequestered salsa of sorts,
a solitary rendezvous, not blue.
Midwesterners must always be good sports
when winter comes conquering and calling.
We dance and read, watch old movies, maybe
paint a closet or polish brass. Befalling
all it can befall, snow on limb of tree.
Stay and salsa a day, you swaying snow.
Just a day, OK? Then you have to go.
Snow Salsa first appeared in THE AVOCET, MINOTAUR, and WILD FRUITION:
SONNETS, SPELLS, and OTHER INCANTATIONS, Puddin'head Press, Chicago.