advent

 

Steven Schroeder

 

every straight dark tree in this stand of pines
is marked by west wind that pushed a blizzard through
hours before, the west side of every trunk white as
driven snow wind scattered so

traces settled here and there
in patches of yellow

grass. birches bend and sway across
dormant irrigation lines,
here and there
a rusted plow.

barns tumble down to earth dark
under bits and pieces
wind overlooked,
wait, not depth

accumulation clings to the body of water,
inland rumors deeper, waiting
deeper still

than the storm
deeper than the expectation
that clings to the body of water,

intimation of coming, of
a word unspoken.

 

 

 

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