by Donna M. Marbach
Like a miniature plow,
an albino squirrel pushes
snow aside
to make a path
from the stand of pines
to once thyme patches
where buried
walnuts lay.
Its front claws
chew through snow,
spewing flakes
round both head and tail
— a small, fierce blizzard —
perhaps the last
we’ll see till spring.
Meanwhile, a neighbor’s orange cat
tip-toes along the white wood
edges of its porch.
It shakes each paw
that touches cold or wet,
seeking sun to warm itself.
It yawns and stretches,
does not see
the squirrel.
White on white.
Veiled by its own uncommonness,
the ghostly squirrel pushes forward
invisible, inviolate,
wanting only walnuts.
But already the canvas
of our yard shows dabs
of brown and grey.
Soon daffodils will spatter it
with yellow-gold and lemon.
Winter’s white will melt
into lilac blooms and roses.
The apple tree will blossom.
Our lawn grow fragrant
with wild clover.