We learn in January to believe
in the deserted body
on rural church steps.
We know now new snow falls
at five in the morning. Empty acres
across the road whistle snow.
Her body now is more than a body
just as a fist is a hand gone mad.
Here are white flowers and red.
The snow-plow driver arrives early
in darkness to clear the church
parking lot for Sunday services.
From his parked car, traveling chaplain
can’t believe the county trooper
unspools yellow tape, barring the entrance
steps. Detectives sweep away snow.
Snow on the empty body, empty
church. The mustached detectives
discover so much: this winter will last
our lives.