Cars slid through intersections,
helpless to stop. Parents held children’s
hands on the ice. Snow was a wonder
to grace the hours that pull us forward
through the holidays. Now we unbury.
Now we have three or four minutes
to stir the gravy and gather ourselves.

What this means isn’t real like
everyday plates. These are serving
bowls and platters with felt liners
between them, good silver taken from
padded cases when all the family is
gathered. It’s real in the way guest
towels are real. Even more

ineffable, the way we make our peace
with ghosts we can’t help bring along
except for children who are witness
to a gathering of those who’ll become
their ghosts, real in the way the years
we each inhabit converge into one
and we are ageless until we leave.

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Scott Davidson grew up in Montana, worked for the Montana Arts Council as a Poet in the Schools and, after most of two decades in Seattle, lives with his wife in Missoula. His poems have appeared in Southwest Review, Hotel Amerika, Terrain.org, Bright Bones: Contemporary Montana Writing, and the Permanent Press anthology Crossing the River: Poets of the Western United States.

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