Winter’s Glory

Faking an interest in the snow, a man

Draws, with heavy black ink from a fountain pen, a drift

Against the house across the street. Snow sensitively shaded

Covers the garage, the front door, every window

That would have taken in the morning’s sunlight. Now

The house is a drumlin of black and white, a well-defined

Burial mound, no strand of furnace smoke

Escaping. This is the isolation the man has hoped for,

His gripes toward his neighbor unimportant, the spiraling

Of actual snow having its effects on somebody else,

One who eagerly squints at the nimbused evergreens.


David Wyatt work has been published in numerous venues. He received the Distinguished Merit Award in Poetry from the Nebraska Arts Council in 2006, has worked in the Criss Library at the University of Nebraska–Omaha for eighteen years, and has been an editor of the Backwaters Press since 2000. He lives with his wife, Susan, in Omaha.