The radio says it will snow tonight
depending on the elevation. "If we are
closer to God," my father answers,
as I watch the wiper blades erase raindrops flecked
with ice from the windshield. My father
points and says, "That's a
good sign," and I believe this night
the ground will hide its soggy brown body
in silent snow.
I look beyond the rushing rain and sleet
and hope to find the slow tumble of flakes
falling through the beams of headlights.
In twenty years I will live
far from God, and my son
will have nothing to hope for between
the slash of wiper blades as they clear away
warm, empty raindrops like memories.
