Sleet

Rare nights when sleet 
fingerpainted our windows,
sent dogs skittering home
early to pant by the fire,
my superintendent father 
drove our Chevy over roads 
fortressing our town before
calling principals, teachers,
and bus drivers to cancel 
the coming day's classes.

Curled warm into wool blankets
we half slept as branches
creaked out ghost stories 
to blackened stars and
shivering pines.

By dawn, the phone rang 
constantly until word spread
that we could throw on warm pants
and sweaters, crunch out over
frozen grass to a friend's 
house for hot chocolate, Elvis
loving us tender on the record
player, and dream about futures 
still far beyond frozen fingertips.
                            

Pris Campbell
 (c)  2013

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