The Inventor

No need
to send a horse
to say the roads are closed,
Navigating the interstate proves it.

Barrels
block the exits
that lead to town, Bright orange
they stand like lanterns in the snow.

The children
seem immune to cold
but my bones are older, Still
I push the door open and look around,

Seeing no one,
I creak to kneeling,
then stretch out as in the days of yore,
arms busy making angel wings.

Too soon old bones
demand a space that’s warm;
One second more in  gazing  admiration
as an artist inventing a new form.

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