Joan Mazza: Passing Thought

Snow is falling, falling. An inch an hour
promised for this storm, the second
one in as many weeks. This is The South
I thought; it’s Virginia. I did not reckon
on ice storms when I moved here, had felt
a deep longing to live more rural.
The snow accumulates, then will melt
as always, part of the seasons’ quarrels.
In the cosmos, we’re no more than flakes
of snow or sand grains, yet we’re borrowed
stardust, too. Our worries keep us awake
at night after dreams of recurrent sorrows.
If lucky, we live long lives that feel too brief,
we spend them crumpling and ironing our grief.

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_{Joan Mazza worked as a microbiologist and psychotherapist, and taught workshops on understanding dreams and nightmares. She is the author of six self-help psychology books, including Dreaming Your Real Self (Penguin/Putnam). Her poetry has appeared in Crab Orchard Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Prairie Schooner, Adanna Literary Journal, Slant, Poet Lore, and The Nation. She lives in rural central Virginia.}