by Rose Mary Boehm
I know I have to do some shedding.
Can’t go into a long, enfeebling winter
with the weight of oceans, moors, beaches,
dark woods, and stark horizons. I suppose
I ought to shed my lightweight roots
and put down the other kind, sturdy and reliable,
holding a tree that tries to rise beyond
the forest to see the stars, watch the blizzards,
the sandstorms, and the inundations.
I shall have to bend with the wind,
but I am shedding the effort.
My back is permanently angled
and ready to take to the rocks and ditches,
amble me through the thicker nights.
My words will be guarded by a red
alpaca scarf into which I’ll shed
all poetry, curses, and laments.
One sunny winter morning
I’ll push through the snow, white and glistening
crystals, dancing lightly to frost’s
fluted cymbals, weightless as a snowflake.