by Roger Terry
Night. The mountains stab cold shadows
White and dark against the stars.
I turn, survey my wandering footprints–
Blind and broken stitches
In the melting snow. Below them streetlights,
Much like stars, shine blurred and warm
Through this winter breeze
And all around the headless stalks
of last year’s wild grain shiver,
I pull my coat tighter, guard
Against the night, the restive breeze,
The shifting seasons of the heart.