By on Nov 23, 2014 in Poetry

Snow plow with doll in foreground

The plow drones through before dawn
blinking amber, like an owl robbed by
a cat strike of one eye and made to
search for dinner face-aslant. Upstairs,
that same light circumnavigates gray walls,
accelerates through corners, as if afraid
of being captured like the rings trapped
by the pair of swollen knuckles dozing
there beneath Egyptian cotton sheets.
The forecast didn’t auger this much snow,
as it also sometimes fails to warn of cats with
razors mounted on their front paws. A renewed
search for a missing doll awaits, ideal proportions
and runway face dropped from a backpack
somewhere between the mailbox
and the driveway. A child wakes, remembers,
and prepares unknowingly for grown-up losses.
The plow, three neighborhoods away, winks
into different windows, its blade designed
to set aside whatever’s fallen, as blame
accumulates behind half-lidded blinds.


Ed Granger lives in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, where he was raised as a free-range kid with a big yard that has shaped his view of the world ever since. He once worked as a sportswriter, and now writes poetry as a serious sideline while also serving as half-time dad to a nine-year-old daughter whose horseback riding makes him even poorer than his non-profit 9-to-5 might suggest. He has had poems published in Little Patuxent Review, Philadelphia Stories, River Poets Journal, and The Heron’s Nest.