she invited me over for a bath.

It has not snowed since that day

and none are hopeful. No cold,

no icicles like cubes from the freezer.

Tapered like fingers, dripping from

the eaves of all the houses. 

No frigid air to catch like a cough.

No snow. Not the kind like

lint from the dryer. Nor the one

like wet sand to pack and throw.

It hasn’t snowed since. Not once.

Which means spring too now

needs explaining. But first,

the bath.

                  She drew the water.

Dragged the overstuffed

chair from the living room

and tucked it between the tub

and toilet. She read to me

in Hebrew or in French,

I can’t remember— one

bone-fine finger turning

circles on the water.

When I was body-hot

and poultry-pink she

wrapped me in a striped

towel and led me outside,

into the snow. Which 

neither of us knew 

was the last.