Nothing to do but sweep this kind
of snow, featherweight but profuse,
floating down to accumulate in silence,
obscuring everything below. My body
remembers its careful step and pivot
from earlier winters, my cleats
ticking like the second hand
of the doomsday clock. The bristles
of my broom make a herringbone pattern
as I work from the center to the edges,
a spine on asphalt. I brush away tracks
of a fox, a rabbit, a mouse, a pair
of coyotes traveling side by side.
Now I’m the only one who knows
they were here. Every winter brings
the same dangers: hunters in the woods,
and here on my driveway that slope
where trees make just enough shade
for black ice to bloom. I refuse
to cut them down. The sun
will come eventually. Until then,
I keep the rhythm of intention
with my muscles and my broom,
exposing darkness, laying it bare.
–
Brett Warren (she/her) is the author of The Map of Unseen Things (Pine Row Press, 2023). Her poetry has appeared in Bellevue Literary Review, Canary, ONE ART, Whale Road Review, and other literary publications. A Pushcart and Best of the Net. nominee, Brett was awarded residencies at the John Hay Writing Studio in 2024 and 2025. Learn more at www.brettwarrenpoetry.com.
© 2026, Brett Warren
Halfway Down the Stairs 