There’s a poem lurking in snow
falling softly outside my window,
in the crow who just slid right off
that branch he tried to land on,
in the cascade of snow that thumps 
loudly when wind blows through top branches.

There’s a poem hiding in the snow angels
69-year-old Michele runs out to make in her yard, 
in the gray, still winter lake as Douglas
watches from the shore,
in Mary’s handprint in the snow
on this day she contemplates fear and courage.

There’s a poem in my Sunday morning pancakes.
There’s a rhyme in my pot of tea.
There’s a verse in that phone conversation with my sister,
a sonnet waiting in my warm shower, 
a haiku hidden in my meditation blanket.
There’s a poem trapped in every snowflake
falling outside my window.