Winterkill

This entry is part 34 of 91 in the series Toward Noon: 3verses

When it died, the porcupine
leaked its fluids onto the snow
like a junker car.

I turn it over
with a stick: no sign
of a wound.

Startled up from the forest floor,
sixteen doves go whistling
into the snow squall.

About

Via Negativa is a unique experiment in daily, poetic conversation with the living and the dead. Dave Bonta founded the site in 2003 and Luisa A. Igloria joined in 2010. Guest authors contribute as well. Dave writes daily erasure poems to discover the poetry hidden in the Diary of Samuel Pepys. Luisa has been writing and posting a poem a day since November 2010, often in response to Dave’s entries at The Morning Porch. Collections of poems first published at Via Negativa include Luisa’s The Buddha Wonders if She is Having a Mid-Life Crisis and Ode to the Heart Smaller than a Pencil Eraser, and Dave’s Ice Mountain and Breakdown: Banjo Poems. Read more…

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