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.
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.