Preparations for a thin winter
Crickets sing in bitter grass,
their love songs slow,
with the earth’s tilt.
Cold will bare all
except the evergreen.
I gather dead oak, set it alight
to spend away.
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—
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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