The dead speak to me always at the first snow.
Did you ever sit in a room and feel a presence,
maybe your grandfather chewing tobacco,
then storing it in his cheek; your father smiling
his funny little smile that makes his eyebrows
go up in bushy arcs, then turns his mouth,
feigning interest, into a silent “o”. . .
–excerpt from “Clairvoyance” in To Sip Darjeeling at Dawn by Donna Pucciani (Virtual Artists Collective 2011). First published in Off the Coast.