WILDERNESS POEM

The crooked stream extends
like a broken finger,
blood spilling from the open wound
of the river.
Shallow on its shoreline,
its knuckles angled
as it slowly turns to rot
under the ice.
Fires scattered across the ginger
hillside like
freckles
on the pale shoulder
of a pretty girl,
trees bare amidst the empty remnant
of a forest.
Looking down from the bluff
onto winter,
out beyond the shy stranger of dawn
twisting its distant waistline of shadow and mist,
twisting sweet horizon.
Through a pale fog it’s hard to tell
if the islet is really land
or part of a dream,
a mirage through morning smoke,
separating the lake
like a jagged bone curved sharp through the skin.
Blue vapor daze,
dead weeds crushed underfoot,
quiet brother of wind moving through the wilderness.