For the Frozen Wood
Jesse Graves
 
At dawn, drifting snow gave the sky back 
to itself brighter than its first falling,
inviting some fool out to stand slack,
watch the slow light come crawling
 
to itself brighter than its first falling.
Iím the perfect fool for a day like this
watching the slow light come crawling, 
erasing the groundís darkened canvas.
 
Some would call me a fool for saying this,
but I hear their voices and see lost faces
rising from the groundís dark canvas,
my dear ones searching for their places.
 
I hear soft voices and see the loss in faces
shaped like hollow versions of my own,
my departed searching for the places 
where their bodies faltered and went down
 
in shapes like hollow versions of my own,
inviting some fool out to stand slack
where their bodies faltered and went down
at dawn, snow giving what the sky takes back. 

Originally appeared in Pisgah Review
     


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