The snow glistened white, pure and sweet
the wind had blown, thawing the top layer
that it might freeze again, a thin crust
like sugar on creme brulee.
She’d never learned to walk, it seemed
and it was too late to master the trick
Her grey fingers, pudgy with dimpled knuckles,
splayed wide upon the ground and she crawled
inching forward, bit by bit.
Behind her, the thing that had been her mother
shambled forward through the snow to her knees
it tripped her, and she tumbled forward
into the drift. Buried, flailing like a swimmer
going down for the third time.
But the infant continued on, little by little.
Her lips curled into a snarl
her stomach screaming with a hunger
no bottle could sate.