Snowflakes In Spring

For Mark

Rebecca Schumejda

The orange that travels
from my fingers to her lips
through tumultuous air
makes her giggle.

You watch from the refrigerator
where milk travels
from your nose to the trashcan.

Everyone and everything expires
like her playfulness
with the last orange slice;

like what I need from you
and you from me, a jigsaw puzzle
of orange peels in her grieving hands;

but thank goodness, we are stubborn
like snowflakes in spring;
like tantrum fingers holding on
to pieces we don’t want to let go of.