Birch retreats into delicate
terraces of distance.
Frozen-under farm fields;
disguised as white lakes.
My thin words might almost
float with the snowfall.
Clearing spaces, cleaning
ground, their spots
of bareness
lure me into open,
naked nets,
settles a heart
tired of its flesh,
and unclenches, gives way
to the guesswork of seeds,
the widening spareness
of their landings.
I stop for each
because I see now the low fox
trails like sister currents
clinging to the pauses of
frozen creeks,
here, in them, my voice returning,
making landfall.
This tree-and-snow country reminds me of the
down commas that blot the seat next to me,
leaked from a winter coat.
Poetry, admittedly, is beyond my writing skills. You do well with it.