After, over hot cocoa, we didn’t talk of love or absent family members or the growing stacks of bills. We watched our marshmallows bob in the cups until they disappeared, listened for the plows to dissolve, and then reappear. When we were young, we laid down miles apart, in tall grasses, and named the same clouds. Before, when I said to you only first occurrences have a certain freshness, I meant this day. A heavy snow in the works, slivers of crystal landing upon your red cheeks, upon your red bobbing cap. I meant you showing your white teeth, you shaking your fine brown hair. I meant you becoming, new, over and then again.
Brett Thompson has been writing poetry since his graduate days at the University of New Hampshire where he earned a M.A. in English Writing with a concentration in poetry. He has been published in various journals, including Plainsongs, Tilde, District Lit, The Literary Nest, and the Cobalt Review. He teaches and lives in New Hampshire with his wife and two young daughters, who both love owls and anything purple.