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.