fog drifts through branches rigid with ice
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.
beside the oak
with a huge round hole an uncanny silence
south roof icicles
no less grotesque for being spindly
beside the woods road
a single stalk of grass pointing toward town
greenbriar canopy
a thousand sections of sky & one yellow leaf
fresh snow
a boil on the black birch looks good enough to lick
handprint
on the fogged-up window to view the sunrise
groundhog
plowing through brambles spots me through the glass
damp with snowmelt
the oak log’s colors are so bright I have to touch
mares’ tails
a sharp-shinned hawk cuts through my trance
rain beads
on each numbered leaf in the study group
inside the deer fence
the 200-year-old white oak isn’t stirring
