by Barbara Daniels

Postage stamps are proof of existence:

Tripolitania, Yugoslavia, Iran. Photos

 

of faces are evidence—Elizabeth Bishop,

Calvin Coolidge, penguins, small dogs.

 

In this world of slick surfaces,

what do blue shoes prove? Songs

 

at bedtime? Angels in snow? That’s ugly,

my dermatologist says, tapping the mole

 

I thought was proof of my character. I’m not

undone. But what is this longing?

 

This row of imagined sons, dark hair, faces

dappled by sunshine? Now I must follow

 

winter’s strict regimen, snow again.

Ice. I’d rather have rain—long, slow hours

 

that darken and drum through the night.

I’m tired of seeming and separation,

 

pears parted from their blue bowl, leaves

from old oaks. Snow comes every day now,

 

sparkling in bare weeping cherries, covering

ground under the pear trees. Music torn

 

from long-ago orchestras plays all night,

almost inaudible, but evidence, yes, of endurance.