A frost-sparked garden path. Tragedy waits
around the corner, casual in sneakers and parka,
no ominous music or long shots of empty,
darkened streets. The sun shines; children laugh;
on the next block a house goes up with clap
and clatter, a future rising board by board.
Half your eternity away, snow threatens.
You’re thinking of Christmas, your unborn son.
This heart-dullness is an echo, a suspension,
a waiting. All falls and crashes sound fleece-thick
muffled but your daughter snuggles to your side
where you’re gazing out the window and asks you
what is wrong.