There used to be a fleur di lis
made of metal--brass, maybe, or iron--
embedded in the crosswalk
of a street near where I work.
I saw it on my way to the grocery store,
would pause to consider its significance:
when it showed up,
who put it there.
Today, on my way to get milk and bread,
I searched for my landmark.
It wasn’t there--or it was,
but covered by asphalt.
A fatality of winter, deemed
less important than its location in a
I can find no metaphor for this,
except: maybe our most interesting
parts are concealed and only
we know about them,
or damn, if this hasn’t been a roughwinter for everything.