Kelsea Habecker Solitudinal

Like a dog soft-mouths

a fallen bird, enclosing it

for transport, the snow

wraps its maw gently

over the forest, making

this season a funeral.

The corpse of the world

is given up and I am glad

(I am the chief mourner

who refuses to mourn).

If not winter we wander

without hard edges to hold

us in. If not a wordless

season the trees talk

themselves out. For silence

like an ice sheet I sometimes

pray. For unmitigated

drift. For a narrow passage,

a fjord, a close. Road

not plowed beyond this

point in winter.

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