Avalanche | by Matthew Schultz

We woke to find that Winter had covered Peach Hill
            with its silver sheen,
and the boys began shouting for their sleds that are buried
            somewhere in the basement––
a pair of old Flexible Flyers with red metal runners and
            blonde birch planks
that my brother and I used to race across much coveted
            snow-day afternoons.

I spent the coffeedark morning underground tunneling
            through piles of toys:
layers of childhood that chart the wilderness we’ve left behind.
            I steal a last look back
and tug at the delicate balance. It all happened too fast, soft shiver
            of memory pulling free
from overhanging bluffs, no time even to gasp at the tumbledown 
            that fell like meteorites
against stone-kissed skin now buried among love-loose things.