Snow melting on the buried lawns, only 8:00 a.m.
and it’s twenty degrees warmer than yesterday.
The black road is pooling with water the same
dull pewter as the cloud smudged sky.
Driving to work, I slow and swing round
one puddle half a street wide, and I see
the sky flipped. See the tall winter stark trees
looming in new proportions and crazy angles,
a reflection hard to resist. But I drive on,
the image plucking at me, and I make it two whole
blocks before I turn back. I stand in front of my car,
door left open, engine running, trying to snag a shot
on my cell phone camera.
A car pulls up. “You alright?” My neighbor asks.
“Just taking a photo,” I say. “I’d better knock it off,
last week I got ordered off a snow bank by two cops.
Got a great photo though.” She laughs and drives on.
When I was a kid, I would turn upside down on the couch
to see my world in a new way. The blood rushing to my
head as the floor became ceiling and the ceiling became floor.
I imagined how we’d live in our house with rugs above us,
and windows at knee height so we’d have to crouch down
for a view.
To know the same place, but different. To see it new.
Like a puddle holding enormous trees climbing up a slurry
sky. A mirror made out of melted snow. Worth turning
back for. Worth being a little late to work.
Top photo: Bigstock