A crook of burled maple–the boy looks down.
Frozen crown, low fields in the distance
seeded in winter sleep. White-knuckled with snow,
the sky holds, fisted around a silence
the boy climbs into.
He abandoned his bike at the end of the trail.
Struck out through the bush, long loose swagger,
his heels crunching hard into snow-crusted leaves.
Riding his anger like a mosquito-driven horse;
he thought of the girl, how he brought her here,
once. The distance it takes to lose yourself.
Frosted orange, kumquat, the sun settles at the bottom
of an over-turned sky. The boy turns his head,
tongues the branch’s crystal surface. Thirst–
he has no name for what he needs. The husky trill
of a winter wren; racoons, nearby, whinny. In the darkening
wild, another sound inside him.
Leslie Casey is a poet living in the larger Toronto area. She has had work published in journals, including CV2 and Queen’s Alumni magazine, and was short-listed for The Malahat Review’s 2015 Open Season Awards. These days, Leslie writes in tiny moments. Poetry remains breath and centre.
I love this! Beautifully written!