for Shelley Bryan
Last hour of the afternoon on the west side of the house
where a narrow pasture and harvested field
We sit on a rock fence looking at the sun
because a yogi said it was good for the eyes.
The red sky standing on water in furrows where corn will grow
darkens and begins to freeze.
I look at you as if you are the sky, stunned by a light that is
Inside me is a woman whose face is a mirror held up to the sky.
Inside me is a woman swollen with bodies inside her
Now is time to light the stove, cook rough grains and winter squash
drink tea in stark and ringing silence.
ferns of ice form on yellow windows of the north side of the house.
I lie in white sheets under a white blanket
the unplowed field filling up with snow.