On the Third Day

Paige Szmodis

I only believe in god

when it snows—

when silvery sheets crust

over the heavens and earth

and my buried memories whisper

from flurries knocking at frigid panes

about sledding at my grandmother’s farm

on the hill, descending down

on a rickety wooden sled

with slicing silver blades through

snowy blankets, crashing

through corn husks

peaking bitter heads out

from artic windows to snap

at our heels.

I forgave the corn carcasses

and the icy claws, grasping at

my boots when I climbed

back up the hill.

I took communion

with the cold wafers

that drifted, landing

accidentally

on my tongue—

the evaporated

snow ascended

to heaven.

And on the third day,

I rose again

from the white pillows

of a boy who is warm

but won’t melt away

my frozen touch,

who resurrects my skating memories

from weathered barns and

brown stone farm homes.

In warm snowy sheets, we exchange

the communion of snowflakes,

we forgive the corn husks,

and resurrect our

bodies, everlasting.