She wants me
To reach for her,
But lately
We’re never awake
At the same time.

Walking after midnight,
Or climbing a hill
At sunrise to kneel
Under the harvest moon
Before she slips
Into the long dark.

We await
Winter visitors —
Shrike and harrier,
Kingfisher and the goldfinch
In his gray-green jacket.

And I want to be
On a mountainside
With you,
Measuring the snowline’s
We could climb a tree
And watch fat flakes
Melt on each other’s cheeks.

But I get sleepy
At all the wrong times
And stumble through
Dreams full of strangers —
Winding new rope
To bind me to the earth
And watching for November.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

One response to “Arrivals”

  1. mercadeo en linea says :

    It’d been spring when she’d passed the grove, but by the time she rounded a familiar-looking curve in the path, she found her paws sinking ankle-deep in freshly fallen snow. Stars twinkled overhead, so bright and clear in the winter night sky. A winding trail had been freshly tramped into the snowdrifts, leading up through a small yard up to a flight of wooden stairs. There was a house, or a memory of one.. blurred, indistinct, like everything else. Glittering icicles reached down from the edge of the snow-covered roof, and on the porch, rows of what looked like crystal lanterns twinkled and shone, casting a warm light.. and outlining the two figures standing in front of the house.

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