further north than usual
the sun in an act of grace
dips a sleeve through the frost
relaxing the air and the woman with an ax
near the pile of fresh cut wood
in front of the pale unshuttered house
the trees have gathered, dark
and down, dropping leaves
in the house shadowed
by low mountains and high windswept sounds
come the clear voices of women at dusk
a chorus of common flowers in winter
in the kitchen warm arms
over the bones of water
tend to the cauliflower
the yam the bean
while the spider in the corner of the window
dips against the smoke, dancing to her dinner
on the strings of her iridescent music
composed in a sinister language of threads
the heat gathers into smells
familiar soft cooking odors
and later the sharp exhales of the unexpected
woman’s body in winter
in the morning a woman opens
the door to leaves on the stairs
the cupped hands of leaves on water
the cascading sounds of leaves against wood
while a leaf rests in the hood
of a thick red jacket
and beneath a north sky
a woman lifts an ax
“Winter Forest I”, Peter Stacey
