![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzcQVaelq03WGXKMOTRu4F7WqhQM55NNVkus7lqTo7BkDJ7pbwlAT4LfykbnoinWX4WEtD4rPhBGVZQqpDVGIMAYFVhVRuYlwIa_enVDnd5kp65lFW4eYFN_pw-rZbn15J1WYr99U6H54/s280/Snow-Drifts-Richard-Osbourne-67307.jpg)
Photograph by Richard Osbourne
of far white drifts
& warm the distance
of what rises
white
she digs in
black
dirt
this place
matters
a boy
running
with his dog
thru fresh snow
where are the roots
tubers growing
thick &
someone said she had
good hands for
gardens
she wept that night
wanting hands
that felt
green rivers
& the skin of
polished ivory
sometimes she wraps
red roses with long strands
of coarse corn or slender barley straw
nails the bouquets to the wall
& the boy still runs—the garden ready—
her hands best smoothing the edges
of far white drifts;
ghost walls & running running
Richard Lance Williams
Posted over on More Poetry
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