IN MOURNING LIGHT Against the thick impasto sky, a stand of cottonwoods pentimento, green and old-gold share a canvas a which-came-first, which overlays heartbreak in cold light. Nothing moves except a ghost-rabbit: once, twice, gone.
THE SNOW’S FRAYED EDGES FINGER NO SUN You’re a frail, troubled slope beneath our flowered quilt. A coarse rush of breath shot with misery and barbarous wheezy gasps. Tiny hand-sewn stitches, white on white, baby steps, sinuous tracery, on fading lilac blocks. I feign calm so you’ll stay calm. The snow’s frayed edges finger no sun. I seek tomorrow’s answers in low criss-crashing patchwork clouds the tight-knit winter branches, our cold stony road. A scan will forecast suffering or chance of giddy shine. Meanwhile you snuggle toward me. I stroke your brow. The barren wind mouths witchery and whips up stormy dreams.