Poetry

Boston Harbor

That was the winter the harbor froze,

I remember,

the iron-grey swell of the ocean

stilled, flattened,

white with snow.

The Charles River, solid

all the way down to the sea.

It got so cold

we started talking to strangers,

unrecognizable, visible only

as eyes above their scarves

below their hats; we stamped

at bus stops and train stations

and cursed the weather

companionably

to keep warm.

I remember your face

red and raw with cold

as you leaned on the shovel,

stared at the half-uncovered car,

the still street,

breath fading into the air.

Mostly I remember the quiet,

the hush of snow falling,

and then the sudden shock of noise,

the harbor creaking and groaning,

the sound as the ocean drew in

its breath and lifted,

turned over,

the way you pull the blankets up

in your sleep.

Erin Snyder