Poem, workshop me.

After That Winter.

Now the white cloud jumps twice round the shingles,
like a circular phantom of her last cold breath.
She would be near silver madness from looking out the window by now, 
at all those gray crystal tree branches. 
Today, the little girl might be thinking, we'll have a new kind of white, 
with hopes of lemonade stands, of honeysuckle,
of a new green leaf or a field daisy, from earth to father.

Now I'm certain I saw The dog,
wrapped up in the blind cord again, sliding it's nervous tail, 

hiding it perhaps behind the girls purple cool-aide covered legs, 
The dog sniffing, not quite noticing the girl could be sulking.
Yet, I noticed, yes, I smelled the potato chips lingering, certainly
those things-- blued my gray hat, wanting a lavender brim.

I glanced back to see white gloves in tufts, through honey combed shades,

becoming a chipped stone with calla lilies. Indeed, the blinding has completely 

transformed my translucent porcelain girl's tear into a smile.
Those gloves, they taunt me, they seem to move a chipped tea cup,
then a broken rag doll, and a shattered plate, but my angel smiled.

The bronze mirror, the one behind the window, it's still there.
Yes, it frames her lovely sleeping hair. She goes again, my golden lock, 
maybe to the basement to find a kite. Hoping, that when I return,
she might greet me with a breezy warm afternoon, of playing in blue grass, of needing 
a bath, of earthly childhood wonders. Leaving the house, I close the rusty car door.
Inside all silence is between us, and I whisper it again. Will you grant her sleep?
The sleep of her lovely hair.