In the stillness that follows a great
abandonment, the smallest motifs
acquire consequence. Once there was
a patch of milkweed where now there is
raked gravel. The woman in the workshop
tonight spoke of what she called red doors—
those threshold moments that tick like a lure
and like a warning, and after you've crossed
into them you realize there's no returning.
The scent of spores, of old musk, lines the air.
How many more calendar squares are left
in the year? To be cocooned in cold, to slowly
run out of words. To surrender to a force
and without the least bit of guile say
It appears you have won—for now.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
