Brother, we once walked through night snow,
past our childhood’s fast food joints.
The parking lots were deep with white fables.
Beyond the hum of yellow signs
and street lights, the moon wore a halo,
which meant the snow would start again,
you said. We went searching for something—
a hill to sled, the last mound
we could stand upon and dream upon—
the earth transfigured at our cold feet.
Collinsville was so still I can imagine
I remember the sound of your breath.
I’d like to say I held your mittened hand.
(You probably wore one of dad’s tube socks
instead.) It is enough we saw a world
that hadn’t been walked on.
Annie Woodford lives Roanoke, Virginia, where she is a teacher at Virginia Western Community College. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Appalachian Heritage, The Comstock Review, Cold Mountain Review, The Chattahoochee Review, and The Normal School, among others.