JON PINEDA

First Snowfall

Snow layered itself
over the already dead,

those clumps of tomato
plants I’d neglected

from the summer lay
crumpled under drifts,

their bones muscled
with cold near the shed.

I spoke your name,
and it spun there,

our little ghost,
spreading open

its arms until they
were bare limbs

of trees, my neighbor’s
broken fence, this

bright distance
between us.