After Winter

Bathed in sun & its fluorescent bloom, I walk
            into the narrow track along Old Taylor Road.
The trees have undressed a shadow of their past selves
everywhere & they crackle under my shoes like old letters
            carried across an ocean in a Ghana-must-go bag.
I sail my mind against the louvers of what held them bound,
clean the tiny drops of sweat on my face with my palm.
            More beads of sweat form around my back, in the warmth
of my sweatshirt where my hand wouldn’t reach
& I let them pool & travel, each thread a witness.
            Earlier today, I woke up to the buzz of my phone.
A friend’s voice warmed into me, stayed with me even longer
as I cleaned my room. Longing is the only privilege I have
            in excess & the threshold wavers from day to day.
In January, my mother’s voice spilled through the phone
into my room & the softness of it gathered in a corner,
            got me through the harsh cold of winter—
as if whispering her presence over the gloom.
I have survived my first winter in America in the company
            of silence that no one breaks.
I know the length of my room by the weight
of the echoes that heaved back at me when I sang
            or read some poems. I wasted away in high expectation
for my first snow & when the snow came,
I stood by my window & watched my neighbors walk their dogs,
            their boots & paws stamped on the snow’s carpet.
The morning after, I stepped out with no gloves
& cupped a snowball. Threw a couple balls into the air.
      I watched them land then I kept walking & walking,
praying for the snow to melt quickly.
I think of the snow as I walk wearing my shorts,
      my legs bare enough for the sun to lick their salt.
These are the days I pray for. To wander into what
once felt distant, bridging the divide.