Snow

The letter arrived. It bore a typo, "nex" for "new":
"I hope you like my two nex books in the spring." But
at the moment it was fall; the leaves were dropping,
green to a kind of sucked-dry brown. Or a "t"
was dropped: it should have read "next." The word,
that winter, came close to becoming a mantra: Next
time? Trust me, there won't be a "next time"! (overheard
in the throes of the "perfect marriage's" sudden dissolution)
and Oh Jesus, shit, what NEXT? (as a couple who claimed
they hadn't loved each other in years found out she was pregnant).
This was the lesson of winter: nothing is sure. The snow
slurred hard, familiar shapes to a paste. Then
it was spring. One day, a package from my friend the former
priest, as he'd promised: two sex books to read.

-- Albert Goldbarth
a leaf of "Some Leaves from the Permission Tree"