Poetry: Wolf Moon Morning
By Jan Worth-Nelson Jan 2010
chiseled triptych of ebony
against blue, the trees Japanese
in taut hysteria against
the dawn, stripped branches
stretched up like lithe ballerinas.
Here inside, where winter
is art, the earnest radio
orates on, repeating itself,
a seismograph without a quake.
Snow lands like gauze
on a chilblain, air so dry
dead squirrel bones crack in the woods,
collapsing beneath their musty pelts.
In crisp leaf beds, scilla bulbs twist
microscopically closer, in a tropism
of warmth, toward each other.
(Reprinted from Contemporary Michigan Poetry: Poems from the Third Coast from Wayne State University Press, 2000.)
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