Reserve

— Caitlin Wilson

Preparations for a thin winter
begin.

Crickets sing in bitter grass,
their love songs slow,
                                    breaking
            with the earth’s tilt.

                        What follows—

Cold will bare all
            except the evergreen.

I gather dead oak, set it alight
            to spend away.

                        ~

The unbearable

is hardly a bellyful of grain and butter,
            but pushes our seams the same.

Woodsmoke in the air.
                        No evening like another.

Yellow-lit windows above the trees—
warm fantasies.

Winter’s stomach stretching to hold us all.

First snow. Cold’s fingertips
            tug a metallic string from the clouds

and ring in a new hush.


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