Winter Memory, Miami

Hudson Review, The, Summer 2003 by Schmitt, Peter

The kitchen dark but for the dim fluorescent,

my father bends to the thermometer

at the window. Later, outside, the crescent

moon dangling, slowly turning he monitors

the speed of the wind, if there is any wind,

while I stand in the chill of the open door.

Over his pajamas he wears a thin

jacket, and I don't let him see me there.

Somewhere in far rows lies this year's crop, a veil

of ice descending each leaf. And sprinklers

click through the minutes like crickets, casting

their drops as if from the hand of a priest,

while still further out, the smudge pots flicker,

faceless jack-o'-lanterns strewn across the fields.