ideal for the indoor desert face the snow
Author: Dave Bonta
I live in an Appalachian hollow in the Juniata watershed of central Pennsylvania, and spend a great deal of time walking in the woods. My books of poetry include FAILED STATE: HAIBUN, ICE MOUNTAIN: AN ELEGY, BREAKDOWN: BANJO POEMS, and ODES TO TOOLS.
Hercules’-club
skinny shadows lead to thorny trunks
deep in the woods
the setting sun fingers two witch-hazels
a crowd of weed-stalks
they’ll all fall down when the snow melts
trapped
monarch caterpillar
there is no milkweed but milkweed
weeds at winter’s end
a few still manage to stand upright
snowy field
the milkweed’s silk has frozen in mid-spill
in the snow
under an impaled rag of a leaf something squeaks
winter barn
a faint smell of summer through an open door
white barn in winter
a wind-chapped look where the old red bleeds through
snow so deep
any arrangement of sticks seems significant
