Requiem for the Northern Forest

— Sarah Escue

Winter buries me
                with wind-worn hands,

unhinges my jaw.
                My body is a landfill,

glinting like the mount at star-rise.
                Dusk-hushed, a moth thumps

athwart the porch
                light, folds into dust.

I burrow deep inside
                my second body—a place

to pray, a place to hide.
                Mid-eclipse, the moon rusts,

hangs above sallow pines.
                Still, the hyacinth purples

in the ice field, survives
                the snowstorm strong-stemmed.

Every day, I pray for color, growth,
                but every day I sink deeper in snow.

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