weed stalks stipple the mountain laurel’s shadow
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.
drifted snow
a doe follows the bootprints as far as she can
a still child
only her eyes keep dancing
where the snow has melted
the mountain’s true skin slick & glistening
far below freezing
the pond ice grows a quilt of downy hoarfrost
free of its seeds
the dried wild mustard looks ready for anything
icy meadow
dried seedheads get to bloom a second time
white with rime
the locust sapling looks electric beside the bowed spruce
back field
fog drifts through branches rigid with ice
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
