sam cooke on my floor—winnie was here, an all white
palest ale gourd too, painted as a ghost, or snow—
also from her
the dog gets into the cookies
the first i’ve made
since i lived on the uppershore, that cold ringed field
near winter—06, first on anngar farm, the moon small
wet in the veil, cold
as tile
the earth, too—
running through that almost
winter field
music in all of the corners of my life
then
now
i bless the bell under the full moon last eve
& the evergreens we cut from up at the cabin,
the bundle of it goes on the front door
solstice is near
the sun shines sallow, out for the first time in days
& so invigorating all the same
KdadaB 