Winter

The way we talk through storms,
sorting sounds
after the roads have stilled:

woodpecker,

wind chimes,
the black scrape of crows,
tiny songs of the smaller birds—
(I am a tiny song too)

It takes a good snow to slow the noise,

with time and a hot cup in hand.

This one sounds like cow bells,

but the cows are gone,
pastures are houses now.
Maybe the bells stayed behind.

Drops from melting ice

(I am a kind of ice)
My breath in fogs,
seeing it leave,
one breath less
one breath less.

The snow was blue once

well past midnight
and under the moon
I rode bareback,
warm smell of winter fur,
the snow muffled his hooves,
horse breath
my breath

Our path would be covered by dawn.

 

                                                            Cheryl Emerson

                                                            January, 2014