Today's poem is by Amy Fleury
Down the draw at dusk seven mule deer come
to browse the blanched grasses around the cabin.
Not all has been winter-killed this early April
as these timid sisters nudge the bitter tufts.
Rose-gold floods their flanks.
Soon all shadows leach away.
Come morning, frost ferns the windowpanes
and my breath disrupts moth-dust on the sill.
The branches of fog-haunted firs appear
to have been assembled from brackish ash.
Lichen brocades the stones hove
from this forest's decay.
At the trailhead, I find an elk skeleton,
its wind-strummed ribs like the empty staves
of a stranded, sunlit ship in the scree.
Gone the ruminant heart, the once pink
and capacious lungs. On its spine
a moth opens its delicate hinge.
Copyright © 2013 Amy Fleury All rights reserved
from Sympathetic Magic
Southern Illinois University Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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