FEBRUARY 12, 2026

Up from a tin cup,
scented strings of clove and apple,
and silence so sharp
it is the prick of a clean white
needle.

Each winter, we wade into it,
this drawing back,
this drawing down
as the chimneys exhale
their sweet, woody breath.

Beneath skies dressed in early violet,
a distant gunshot cracks and fades,
making stray deer stiffen;
a hot fog of gray fear 
rising up 
from their keen noses.

Weary, we are all
out of the woods now,
out of autumn,
where leaves were for the leaving.

~