the white tail-end of thanksgiving
is feathered over the farm
three feet deep
& the gray hand of god
pushes downward.
ghosts of children
slip through the cracks
of the barn door
where the earth lays slack
bending down
& the tall spruces
at the edge of the world
hang their arms to their feet.
the snow is a quiet lover
lying upon your ground.
he is heavy & thick
over the stone markers,
his unassuming caresses
in the weeping wind
cease on command
at the first chip-chip-chip
of a junco, flitting into the open
only to find
there’s no place left to land.
~~~
