Dunes Review, Fall 2013
She sits in his chair, in his red
Flannel shirt, rolled collar crusty
With sawdust & his sweat.
She sips her fourth cup of
Coffee of the damned new day.
She curses the third blizzard
In a week. First trapped
The ambulance a mile from
Home. Second halved the
Service to a hymn & a prayer.
She leans into the window, eyes
Pinned open by the white and the
Moon. A stag stands at the
Glass: antlers frosted
Like winter fir, amber eyes,
Pelt glazed with ice.
He presses close, until the
Shrapnel of his lungs traps her
Silhouette. They breathe together.
They breathe with the woods beyond
The low stone wall. She wakes to trampled
Crocuses, half-covered by new snow.