by Simon Perchik

It’s not a map yet there’s hope
–you unfold old times
as if one morning in February

you’d spread your arms
and land became land again
stayed behind as the snow

still tying down the Earth
–a small envelope, kept empty
the way you’d reach for her hand

and inside the air was warm
though there’s no rain, no grass
not yet a place for a name.

Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, Poetry, Osiris, The New Yorker, and elsewhere. His most recent collection is Almost Rain,published by River Otter Press (2013). For more information, including free e-books and his essay titled “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.