First Snow

First Snow

by Tammy Ho Lai-Ming

You show me the communal snow-covered garden,

and point to one of the dwarf wooden boxes—

that’s where you keep your bicycle.

Its saddle retains your smell,

despite the rain you rode through,

just the day before.

I think of the oft-repeated story

of two bed-bound patients in a terminal ward:

One’s bed is next to the window,

the other’s pushed against the wall.

This could be a beautiful picture:

“It’s snowing.  First proper snow in years,”

the first says.

“I can see car wheels stitch marks on the snow.

Sometimes a fox or two phantom around.”

The other patient is jealous:

“Tell me more.  Tell me more.”

We cannot see so far; we can only see now.

Scaffolding is blocking some of the view.

In teatime light, dark as night,

you and I begin to reflect on the glass.