Sometimes a poem can seem to be like a jeweler’s setting, in which a gemlike image is presented.
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Sometimes a poem can seem to be like a jeweler’s setting, in which a gemlike image is presented. This one, by Chase Twichell, who lives in upstate New York, has one of those perfect gems of observation in the “cinnamon swirls” of sand on the surface of the road. I’ll never see sand on the road again without thinking of this. It’s from her new book, “Things as It Is,” from Copper Canyon Press.
After Snow
I’m the first car after the sander.
The cinnamon swirls of fresh sand are intact.
Except for that – the sand and the road –
The woods look as if they might have
a thousand years ago, except for
the absence of tracks.
