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Drive through winter

In a bowl on the edge of the forest a vole sat suspended in the ice
A single flaw in a hoary squat jewel; one-eyed keen on waiting for them discover it,
knowing it likely couldn’t hurt

But all brightened morning and all dim snowy afternoon
both on the edge of the woods and through the deep of the woods
and both away from the house and returning upon it, under the power lines and beneath a piquing crow’s eye
she kept describing the sound the ice used to make beneath the earth,
growing outside her windows, diminishing the entire world

Bethick’d he argued from deep within a rapt loft of parka that
nothing has changed, or could ever change
That sound sounds like sentiment, the weakest recollection, lowest common denominator
and You disappoint me just now

The woods then opened enough to stamp their boots clean
and there was room for everyone around the bowl,
and the thaw glossing the vole’s eye
the crow’s ear and eye and
the shards of glass revealing
the growing space available to scuffle or reconcile, or neither

and she argued about sound in a more grand tradition as ‘a space depleted
through the ever-lessening wonder of the earth, and
it still can’t describe the love I lost for you
in this short winter day’