After Leaving My Father at the Hospital on Christmas Day,

by Donna Vorreyor

everywhere I look, I see eruption. A startle

of ice cracks off a branch above my head.

A local dog goes from saunter to sprint

at the sight of a squirrel.

I have parked

beneath a tree still flush with berries,

grape-like and browned, knocked loose

by the fierce wind and exploded

into mush on the hood of my car.

Little organs.

Little clots sticky as tar.

I swipe at them with my gloves, rub

them with snow to wash away

the streaks before they freeze.

Stroke, a slow movement across a surface,

a new rowing across an old world.

Image: @aluna1 / stock.adobe.com