The swings look lonely
in the snow.
Sewing up toes —
200 miles
and it’s so hard on my mind
I can smell the smoke
from the stove.

Hauntings arrive
unlooked for —
here where shared blood
runs quiet.
And these
and historic occupations —
busy hands against the devil —
so serious,
so studied —
free me
from a need for mercy.

But a restless eye
still seeks these
points for pause —
lit silver by moonsnow,
swings beg a release
from an inertia
that chains us all —
a dervish
or a summer’s  breath.
And woodsmoke curls
heavy on a suspended
black sky backdrop —
someday one of us
must relent.


About Emily

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

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