from the humble ramparts

striding cracking across the white cellophane
ice atop the mud, dead leaves dusted, late snow
just trees, jumbled and mismatched
mossy stumps to mark the tall ghosts
the gloom, the morning, the afterward darkness of
the rain
among vague constellations of stone, cairns
to hold the corners, inscrutable
one thousand sagas sung at sunrise, junco
songs and pileated hyena hymns in the cold
lacing the understory, the stone walls
time-tossed and doomed to be forgotten
I walked through my own plume of white breath
weaving into this invertebrate
forest, to haunt it
for a few moments of my own.

Bristol, New Hampshire, March 2020.

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